


Lapsit Exillis

by Luorescence



Category: Arthurian Mythology, Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alchemy, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Avalon - Freeform, Dark Magic, Dubious Morality, Family, Gen, Holy Grail, Moral Ambiguity, Multi, Politics, Post-Canon, Post-Goblet of Fire, Pureblood Culture, Pureblood Politics, Pureblood Society, Secret Identity, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-10
Updated: 2018-02-27
Packaged: 2018-05-19 00:25:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 30,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5949049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luorescence/pseuds/Luorescence
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry Potter, head of the Auror Office, faces the most menacing threat he has ever encountered. One that has managed to rally the entirety of the wizarding world into fighting against it as the World Wizarding Coalition. After a battle that kills the wizards' only hope of survival, Harry is sent back in time to 1992 Avalon, where it all began (or so he heard, it's not like he had a choice in that matter).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 0 - Hoc non initium fabulae est.

**Author's Note:**

> As always, many thanks to [Fjeril](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Fjeril/pseuds/Fjeril) for her wonderful feedback and pointing out the biggest mistakes. Mind you, she isn't officially beta-ing so there probably are mistakes left and I'd be thankful if you point them out.
> 
> Please keep in mind that I took many liberties with the Arthurian mythology, though to be fair, there already are multiple conflicting versions of the different stories.
> 
> If you see any foreign sentences/expression (including the titles), just **hover your cursor over them** to get the translation. Of course, they're also put at the end of each chapter, in the AN.
> 
> Rating and warnings might change later on. Same for the tags.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Where Harry Potter has a dream of meeting with an old friend, learns things he isn't surprised are happening and doesn't quite know what to think but still decides to go along with it because that's what he always does._

* * *

**.**

_Hoc non initium fabulae est._

* * *

  
Under Harry’s naked feet, the ground was soft and wet. He wiggled his toes in the earth taking in a deep breath, smiling at the petrichor hanging in the fresh air. The rain however, felt like velvet on his face and neck, its touch light and fluffy. _Clearly a dream_ , the wizard thought and intrigued, he slowly opened his eyes, expecting water to fall in his eyes. Instead his vision was swarming with red petals.   
  
He curiously lifted his head, eyes falling on a sky made of a mirror reflected what looked like to be an infinite sea of spider lilies. Against the abundance of red, the black of his hair and green of his eyes stood out; the distinctive features of Harry _Potter_ he had done away with three years ago as a necessity. It was weird to see them again.  
  
With a nostalgic hand, his fingers traced the frame of large round glasses perched on his nose, registering the coolness of the metal. His arm fell back and he shook his head as he took a flower, removing the petals one at a time and rolling them between his fingers. It didn’t feel like a dream at all. Closing his eyes, he could even feel a breeze, like a caress on his skin. The sensations were far too real. It felt more like a vision. With a habit he hadn’t lost in thirty-seven years, his hand went to his forehead, where his scar had once been. Much to his relief, the skin was still smooth, though he doubted Voldemort would have ever sent him that kind of dreams.  
  
“Harry.”  
  
The smooth and deep voice, achingly familiar, echoed into the air, stirring the wizard from a set of painful memories right into another of a different kind but none less distressing. If he was honest with himself, his life had quite a lot of pain and distress, though he often was careful not to think about them. When he did, he had the tendency to wallow in self-pity. Despite the fact that in the end, he still managed to keep going on, it was definitely not a part of himself he liked.  
  
Harry turned, petals swirling around all him, to see a man appear from thin air with a pop that reminding him of house elves. “Long time no see,” the other said with a grin.  
  
In his memories, Ea had been gorgeous, with an alabaster skin, hair that looked like threads of golden and delicate features. Doll-like qualities that had deceived more than one, as people tended to assume his nature matched his appearance. It couldn’t be falser.  
  
“Ea, I must say,” Harry began, eyes straying on the ashen tint of his complexion and sunken cheeks, noting that the ethereal glow the other had always seemed to have faded. He looked broken, cuts like cracks on his skin. In certain places, whole pieces were missing, letting a mass of bubbling purples, reds with flickers of yellow in plain sight. It was still as disgusting to see as the first time. Harry forced himself to look only at Ea’s face. “You look terrible.”  
  
That being said, the Graal had kept his regal aura, a soft expression on his face that betrayed nothing of what he was thinking. Ea cocked his head on the side, scarlet eyes—exactly the same shade as he remembered—meeting his. His voice didn’t falter when he said, “Of course, I am dying.”  
  
Harry wasn’t the least surprised. “But, somehow, here you are. I didn’t think I would ever see you again after the little stunt Hermione and you pulled out.” Not the adult version anyway. Not after being sent back. “Don’t think I’ve forgotten or forgiven you,” he added though there was no bite to his words.   
  
He knew the reasons, had had time to get used to their absences and had a new life he was happy with. Maybe not as happy as when he had once been, but these times had been long gone even _then_.  
  
“Why are you here?” Harry said when Ea didn’t speak.   
  
_How did you do?_ He wanted to add, wondering if there had been a way for him to keep in touch with the people he had left behind in the fut— He stopped himself before going onto a trail of thoughts he knew he would regret. The Graal had probably been able to contact him all this time, he hadn’t done it because he hadn’t deemed it necessary.  
  
Instead, he asked, “What happened?”   
  
“The Corrupted Graal, it’s eating me.” Ea gripped his shirt and pulled up, revealing a pulsing black web oozing from a hole over his heart. He didn’t seem disturbed or even worried, observing the phenomena with interest before looking back at Harry.  
  
Of course, it would be the bloody Corrupted Graal. Harry should have guessed. War wouldn’t stop because he wasn’t there to fight it. With Althea’s gone, Ea had told him there was no chance for them to succeed. Well, not in these words but Harry wouldn’t be back in time if the other hadn’t believed it.  
  
The other frowned then and took a few steps forward to put a finger on his lips with a shush.   
  
“Don’t say ‘Sorry’ or anything like that. It’s okay. I had a good life, for the most part. It wasn’t that long but still longer than what we expected. At least, it wasn’t boring. I don’t mind dying now.”  
  
“After all, to the well-organised mind, death is but the next great adventure,” Harry whispered, nostalgia and bitterness filling him. He couldn’t count the number of times he had muttered the words to the ones beyond any saving, knowing most of them would find them empty. However, they had liked hearing him talking one last time before dying and he had never known what else to say.  
  
Ea patted his shoulder, his laughter airy and eyes glistening. “I wish I had met Albus Dumbledore when he was alive. He must have been a great man for you to quote him so often.”  
  
“Shush, you. It wasn’t that much,” Harry protested very meekly, much to the Graal’s amusement. He couldn’t help the smile as he continued, “He’s definitely something else though. Completely barmy. You would either absolutely love or loath him. Probably would want to eat him, but then, knowing you, you’d eat any powerful wizard.”  
  
“Come on.” Ea shook his head but he was grinning. “You’ve got to forgive me, I’m only three in your current timeline. At that age, I was more thinking with my stomach than anything else. Not quite the man I’ve grown up to be, right?”  
  
“Indeed not,” Harry replied with amusement, thinking of the child that still slept with his father each night. Brilliant but arrogant and hot-headed while Time had made his future self much mellower and wiser. “Well then, Ea. What can I do for you then, while you wait for your great next adventure?”  
  
“I want to hear all about yours.”  
  
The request was strange coming from a being he knew was nothing short of omniscient. But then, it was Ea’s last will and, Harry himself, although he still had conflicted emotions about having been sent back while leaving the rest of them to a grim future, was deeply indebted to his friend.   
  
“Okay,” Harry eventually said. “That will take some time though.”  
  
Ea tapped his chest with an index, an impish grin brightening his face. “You know I’m not exactly made of normally digestible material or an easy meal to eat, even for a Graal.” He sat amongst the red tiger lilies. “I’ve got plenty of time.” Then he patted the space right next to him, flowers transforming into a large cushion under his hand. “Sit and start speaking. I want to know everything.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation:
> 
>  _Hoc non initium fabulae est._  
>  This is not the beginning of the story.


	2. I - Fatum fellat.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Where Harry Potter realises that travelling through time made him lose his hearing. Where a Knight, whose identity will remain hidden for now, except for the important fact that he also happens to be a Death Eater, has his lovely evening interrupted by his master's surprise calling._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warning:** A bit of gore during the second part of the chapter.

* * *

**I.**  
__Fatum fellat.__

* * *

**21st of June, 1992**  
  
_Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck_ , Harry thought repeatedly as his body twitched and his ears rang. Liquid fire seemed to be running through his veins, burning him from the inside, each of his nerves ablaze with pain. He tried to take a deep breath but only managed a pained hiccough. Eventually, mentally cursing Ea and Hermione, he just lay on the ground waiting for the tremors to stop and his cardiac rhythm to go back to a less crazy pace. Only then he allowed himself to open his eyes, thanking Merlin that his glasses had somehow managed to stay unbroken on his nose.  
  
He was sprawled on his belly, right cheek pressed against the ground. Right in front of him, big crimson eyes were staring at him. Their owner was a baby with short blond hair and rosy chubby face. There was foam at the corners of its mouth as it was sucking on its fist before it lowered it to smile at Harry with an expression that looked far too pleased and not very babyish. Harry had never entertained the idea of Ea being a toddler but, the wizard narrowed his eyes at the little one, it looked exactly like it could grow into the man Ea was.   
  
“The exact point in space and time where I was born. I can’t go farther so I’m sending you there,” the Graal had said before forcefully grabbing Harry’s shoulders and using his peculiar brand of magic to send him here, wherever that was. The baby was now waving his arms in his direction in the universal pick-me-up gesture, rosy lips smiling and red eyes unblinking, staring as if it could read into Harry’s soul.  
  
Harry slowly sat up, grimacing at the soreness of his body before he gathered the toddler into his arms. Above his head, there were grey clouds with flickers of oranges and blues on a dark sky. Black shapes stood against it, the skeleton of a metallic structure with red parts glowing. Looking around, despite the obscurity, the wizard could tell he was in the middle of what must have been a spacious hall before some kind of explosion had damaged the place.  
Except for where Harry stood, everything was covered in a thick amber-like material, from what was left of the walls to the chunks of stone and glass littering the ground. In the distance, he could distinguish next a distorted doorway, a dome covered in a iridescent pink-purple substance with fine pulsing golden filigree running through its surface,  as if it was organic.  
  
What the hell happened there? The Auror couldn’t tell. Looking around, he could see the gooey stuff splattered all around emitting a faint mist, like large boiling slugs. The only safe area was where Harry himself was standing. It looked like it had been blasted away from his position. In fact, it was probable that Harry himself had been in the heart of whatever had exploded. Or rather, the baby that could only be Ea. He didn’t know what exactly a Graal’s birth entailed to transform its surrounding in such a way, but he didn’t think he really wanted to know.  
  
There was a something in the corner of his eyes, drawing his attention was drawn to the left. A couple of feet away, just at the limit of the goo-free zone, was a person on their knees, hands grabbing their pants and shuddering. He couldn’t see their visage as their head was down, a mess of shoulder-length snow white curls keeping it hidden. It was when he took in the speckles of gold on their hair and shirt that it eventually hit him. The Auror scrunched his nose, realising that it stank of burnt flesh and chemicals.  
  
A sense of urgency pushed Harry to get up and go to them as fast as possible because there was no way this golden stuff was anything good. His legs felt like shit as he staggered in their direction. He bit the interior of his lips, ignoring the protest of his body when he let himself drop in front of them.  
  
His eyes instantly caught the drop that fell on the person’s trousers, slowly disappearing off the material while also nibbling at it in that same way Acid curses gnawed through whatever they were touched, mean— The other twitched. _Bloody hell!_ Harry shifted the baby to free his right arm. He gently cradled their cheeks, then slowly lifted their head and brushed their hair out of the way.  
  
_T_ _his is a_ _bloody_ _nightmare!_ Over the bridge of his nose until the middle of his right eyes was nothing but burnt tissues with fading sparkles of gold. The entire left part of him—because there was no mistaking him—face however, from about two inches under his eyes up to the hairline was covered in glittering gold. Harry swore aloud, realising the error he had inadvertently made by moving his head. The liquid now slowly trickled down to his cheek bone.   
  
“Don’t move,” he muttered. Without waiting for an answer, he reached for his wand and moved its tip over the covered area to delicately remove every ounce of gold he saw, starting from the visage, then into exposed areas—multiple patches over the arms and forearms—as well as cutting the staining locks of hair.   
  
Overall, fortunately, nothing as serious as the face. He could tell that one was grave though. Second degree magical burns at the very least. The skin was nothing but an ugly swollen mess of yellows, reds, whites and browns. He could see blisters already forming over the palest areas. The magical substance, which he couldn’t remember having ever seen before, had left speckles of gold over the whole area as if sprayed like stars on a night sky.  
  
Even if the wound obviously needed immediate treatment, Harry was wary of using any of the basic healing spells when he didn’t how the residues of magic would react. He had been lucky enough not to cause more damage when cleaning up, not that he could have afforded to let the acid-like liquid burry deeper into the skin. Even if the eyelids were still there, he doubted the eyes themselves were intact.  
  
_I should’ve known!_ Harry told himself as he finally let himself breath. Of _bloody_ course he should have known! When he had been sent back to the moment of the Graal’s birth, he should have know. Althea Calice not only was Gallica’s representative in the Wizarding World Coalition, but also Ea’s _father._ The same person that had quite literally died in his child’s arms before said child, only moments later, had managed to get Harry back in time.  
  
And by Merlin’s balls, Harry admired how silent the poor fucker was when he probably was dealing with an incredible amount of pain. He could see him moving trembling lips with little to no pauses. When he bent forward to hear the words, he couldn’t. He slowly shook his head then he looked at the yawning baby—Ea—briefly cooing at him before his attention was attracted to movement on his right.   
  
The dome he had seen earlier was opening, revealing two forms too far for him to see anything but their height, one tall and the other significantly smaller. He frowned when he realised they were making their way through rocks and goo with a liberal use of the Siphoning Charm and the Reductor Curse and managing _not_ to make a ruckus.  
  
In fact, they were completely _noiseless_.   
  
Come to think, now that he paid attention, Harry told himself as he closed his eyes.  
  
He didn’t think he could hear any sound at all.

* * *

**24th of June, 1995**  
  
Why the organisers hadn’t thought of putting Image Projection charms to allow the public to see what was going on down there? Raf didn’t know. After another glance at the seemingly inactive field, no sounds or visuals reaching them, he didn’t hesitate to put the morning edition of _Le Bouffon de Rire_ out of his bottomless pouch. What with taking care of the aftermaths of his last mission—more paperworks than necessary, far too much tea and not enough sleep—and preparing his stay in Britain for the following two weeks, the gatherer had yet to read it.  
  
“‘A NEW TRICK OF CARD!’,” he said aloud, knowing that the old coot seating at his left would be interested.  
  
As expected, Oscar perked out, eyes immediately going to the front page article. Their hazelnut shade gained an amused glint. “Isn’t that young Bonaventure?”  
  
Indeed it was now that Raf looked closely at the picture. More used to the young man’s Squire persona, he hadn’t paid attention—much less recognised him—to the lad with dark messy shoulder-length hair and stumble, eyes determined not to look at the photographer. He looked extremely ill-at-ease. So much that it was painfully obvious he was trying very hard not to bolt out of there, probably to the silhouettes moving in the background who could only be Bonaventure’s fellow Rôdeurs.  
  
The line of buildings behind though, the half-timbered houses of Camelot whose wood structure had been replaced by stone while keeping the overall appearance of medieval houses, was a dead give-away of the location. The obsidian of the stone was unique in the fact the only place in Avalon it had that peculiar colour was around the Crown Gardens.  
  
“Read the article.” Oscar’s voice stirred Raf from his thoughts.   
  
It took a moment to remember why the damn wizard didn’t do it himself. While Avalon had two official languages, French and Breton, both of which the newspaper was printed in. His godfather was only fluent in the first and had never held much interest in learning the second. Brought up into such a multilingual environment, for Raf, learning both had been as natural as learning English at home with Sophia; he usually picked whichever exemplary he came upon first.  
  
“‘It is with horror, but unfortunately without surprise, that the body of the very esteemed Conan Glengrovan has been found in his familial estate of the Crown Gardens, where he lived with his son, Conan Glengrovan Jr, who discovered him when coming home this night. The later chose not to comment, without a doubt consumed by the thoughts of inheriting the renown Balance à Scrupules, popular as much for the optimal quality of its ingredients as for the unsavoury character that the late Glengrovan Sr was.’”  
  
Oscar hummed slightly, bending over Raf’s forearm, head almost resting on the younger’s left shoulder, dirty blonde curls tickling his skin. “Let me guess.” He brushed some of his hair away, looking at the words as if he could decipher them. “It’s the Arcana again and poor Bonaventure, as the Rôdeurs’ newbie, had to do PR?” He chuckled. “He never was made for public speaking, that one. Always was awfully awkward and shy when not hiding behind his mask.”  
  
“To be fair,” Raf countered as he rapidly read through the rest of the article. “I don’t think he expected PR to be part of the job.”  
  
Bonaventure had just graduated from his Rôdeur apprenticeship, with honours _and_ two years earlier than expected. Quite a feat for someone who had left school for less than five years. When one knew excellence was a standard for Squirehood as much as it was one for Knighthood, it wasn’t surprising. After all, they had resources and a freedom others didn’t, as well as more than enough occasions to practice.  
  
“The lad probably expected to jump directly into the good action. You know, hexing bad people and bringing them to justice. Not being given in offering to the press.”  
  
“Why he would want to do that in his spare time, I wonder,” Oscar mused, twirling a lock of hair around his fingers. “Why would any of us do anything else in our spare time, I still wonder.”  
  
“Well, granduncle of mine.” Raf smirked when the eldest scowled, unhappy with the reminder that he wasn’t as young as his appearance indicated. “Some people actually have ambitions other than being a social butterfly.”  
  
Oscar laughed at his words, gently patting the other’s shoulder. “There’s nothing wrong with being a social butterfly, Raf. Plus, you know how busy it can get for us. Bonaventure certainly didn’t take the easy job to maintain. While, me, most of the time, I can come running at a moment’s notice without having to find a pesky excuse to miss work.”  
  
Raf grimaced at the thin-veiled mockery in the older man’s statement. The House of Bonaventure, unlike the Notts, had neither the tremendous fortune nor lavish domain required to sustain the kind of life Traditionalists like Oscar led. Not that the Bonaventures had ever been traditional to begin with, or were pureblooded anymore for that matter, which probably was the roots of his godfather’s dislike for the family as a whole.  
  
“Hilaire goes on to being his usual self. You know, bad puns,” Raf interrupted him to translate the shamefully easy wordplay on Bonaventure’s name and his “first adventure outside the walls of the Guild of Rôdeurs”. “And mockery of the Rôdeurs in general. The lad says they can’t confirm if it’s the Arcana or not yet because the analysis of the scene crime isn’t finished. That being said, they did found the Tower card on the scene crime with the same magical residue as their other murders.”   
  
He turned the page to get to the detailed story. Even though the Knights weren’t on the Arcana’s case, yet, it hadn’t stopped them to follow it closely. The weekly reports of the Guild of Rôdeurs had gradually become a rather frequent subject of discussion. The fascination Avalon had for the Arcana, even worse for the Knights of the Round Table, made the folder they received every time the Arcana stroke—far too often—feel like a bone thrown to a bunch of hungry dogs.  
  
The Arcana that had surfaced so far—Death, the Devil, the Tower—each had their own _modus operandi_ and quirks: Death didn’t use magic but was fond of throwing sickles into people like arrows on a target while the Devil specialised in the Entrail-Expelling Curse. Although both methods were undoubtedly messy and bloody, other criminals had chosen them before. It was nothing really original.  
  
The Tower however, had introduced Avalon’s already large variety of ways to commit murder to a new level of artistic wrongness. The Scorpions, they had begun naming the victims, in reference to the peculiar shape they had after their passage in the murderer’s care.  
  
 “And it was a Scorpion too,” Raf eventually said, thankful for the fact that the Guild of Press Publishers had passed a decree to forbid the publication of the Tower’s victims’ bodies in the press addressed to the general public. In top of that, all descriptions and drawings were also subjected to Age Limitation spells that would only let adults see them, if they chose to.   
  
The Knight could only approve of the decision because, really, nobody should have to see what the Tower did. It was the sort of thing one would wish to _unsee_ , but be unable to ever forget. The kind of thing that stuck to the mind and came back to haunt one’s dreams.  
  
The body was turned facing up, bent into a crescent. The legs were tied together with sinews, from the calf down, stripped of anything to leave the twisted bones apparent in a mimicry of a tail with the metatarsal bones arranged into a sting while the hands were engorged into grotesque pincers. The torn open torso, with ribs deformed into long legs, left its content like a sinister offering to a divinity. Would have, if not for the fact that there was nothing but a blob of sickly shades of reds, pinks and whites, as if a wild beast had devoured its way in, leaving after it only bits of this and that. No heart had ever been been found, probably eaten away.  
  
Strangely enough, amongst the already weird mix of cold focus and pure savagery required to make such a thing were a touch of humanity in the fact that the Tower always covered their victim’s face with black velvet, their card resting on its middle. Raf would never forget the pristine face lying under, expression completely neutral and eyes glazed staring into oblivion, as if they had died unaware of what was happening to them.  
  
Like many others, Raf had been as appalled as fascinated by the unique display of creativity and sadism one would have to possess to go through such extent to torture another human being then display them into a sculpture of a human-made scorpion. Above all though, he felt for Glengrovan Jr and all the other murdered alchemists’ family and close friends; nobody should ever have to see their dearest in that sort of shape.  
  
“ _Le Bouffon de Rire_ and Hilaire aren’t fools and neither are the rest of us. We all know what it means,” he concluded while getting back to the front page.   
  
Intrigued by the other’s uncharacteristic silence, Raf looked at his left to find the wizard playing with his hair, again, as discreetly as he could. Really, he wondered how someone of such standing and character as Oscar Mallory Nott, who placed no small amount of importance in decorum and appearances, could have developed such a visible childish tic.   
  
“It’s still as blond, thick, curly and plentiful as always, Oscar. It’s not going to whiten or fall anytime soon, you know. Stop fidgeting, old man.”  
  
The grunt the wizard graced him with was extremely undignified and the younger answered by raising a doubtful eyebrow. The later had been introduced to his godfather in the late sixties, who also happened to be the twin of Raf’s maternal grandmother, Regina Rookwood née Nott. Oscar had been a decade away from fifty at the time. Twenty-six years later, the sly fox was still in his prime but while many wizards his age already had thinning or whitening hair, Time had left his alone, making it some weird obsession of his. Still, it hadn’t stopped Raf’s godfather to use his exceptional talents with anything that could feed his vanity—to keep his fear of old age at bay—in order to look like he was in his early thirties at the very most and certainly not a sixty-nine years old wizard. People’s reactions never ceased to amuse Raf when they discovered Theo was his teenage son and not a younger brother or cousin. As least, Raf thought as he brought his attention back to the article, his Nott-self wasn’t disturbing to look at.  
  
He smiled fondly and decided to read the next part in the most dramatic tone he could manage while keeping his voice high, but down enough not to make a scene. Considering they were standing in the middle of one of Hogwarts Quidditch packed-to-the-brim pitch stands with the Third Task maze down below, really, it was quite a feat.  
  
“‘Since Glengrovan’s alchemical services weren’t a secret and rumours have been circulating for months about the wizard latching onto the fruitful Homunculi traffic—without the Rôdeurs being able to find factual proofs of any illicit practice of alchemy or any irregularity with his alchemy permit—the murder could in line the long string of punitive measures taken by the mysterious Arcana against alchemists extremely worried about missing the profit to be done out of the Homunculi market, but reluctant of taking the tests to obtain the necessary permit delivered by the Guild of Alchemists.’”  
  
“Of course they wouldn’t find anything against him.” Oscar snorted. “Glengrovan was such a sad excuse of a human being I can’t even bring myself to care much, but one must admit, the prick was no sham. Not that he would have had much success otherwise.”  
  
“He certainly knew his herbology enough to pay top-notched gathering for what it is, time-consuming and needing a lot of efforts, which a lot of gatherers like apothecaries seems to forget. He could appreciate the hard work though,” Raf added, thinking of the far-too-numerous-times he had had to go to the other side of the globe, searching in the middle of nowhere for plants that had indecent conditions to meet in order to be harvested at full potency. “Enough for him to be one of my regulars. He also was a furnisher for more than a couple of old families, including the Flamels and Calices. Althea would’ve made sure Glengrovan wouldn’t have been caught.”  
  
“Althea wouldn’t and he certainly didn’t do that.”   
  
Raf didn’t mask his surprise at hearing his father’s voice. He was seating on his right, elbows on his knees and golden brown eyes on the newspaper. He hadn’t thought the other had been listening to the conversation as he had been speaking with Sophia only moments ago. A glance at his mother indicated she was now in a hushed conversation with the witch next to her, whom Raf didn’t know.  
  
“I can assure you there was no lost love between Glengrovan and your cousin,” his father continued, eyebrows slightly frowned. “In fact, they have been at odds with each others for years. No matter the Flamels or even his own family’s affection for the apothecary, Althea can’t stand the man. Apparently, he finds him to be a sad excuse of an alchemist.”   
  
Oscar snorted at that, twirling a lock of hair around his fingers. “Seems a bit shallow a reason for him. There aren’t many alchemists on par with Althea and he never was inclined to scorn the less skilled. What’s so special with Glengrovan? I mean, except for the fact he’s Glengrovan. With Flamel being an old friend of the bastard, I would’ve expected for Althea and Glengrovan to get along.”  
  
“I honestly don’t know.” His father shook his head. “I can tell you it never ceased to sadden Nicolas and the reason Althea never tried to go after him is loyalty for the Calices and the Flamels. After Nicolas’ passing away, well, you know there were many more important issues to take care of. At least, that’s something he won’t have to deal with when there’s already so much on his plate.”  
  
With Nicolas Flamel’s death only a couple of months ago and Raf’s cousin’s nomination to inherit his position as the head of the Round Table, Althea had been left to deal with the mess his new responsibilities brought on top of having to take care of his own children. He didn’t envy his situation at all.  
  
“Still,” Raf said, rescanning the article in case he had missed something but there was nothing. “He’s not quite finished with Glengrovan. Seeing how unsuccessful the Rôdeurs have been so far, he will probably send them help. It’s not like we can let the Arcana go rampant forever.”  
  
“It’s been eighteen months since the beginning of the Arcana’s strikes, isn’t it? And, still not much is known on them except for at least three killers and a tarot fetish. Oh my,” Oscar interrupted himself, tapping a finger his right cheek dimpled by his lopsided-smile. Raf didn’t miss the impish glint in his hazel eyes and faint shaking of his shoulders. “It’s nice to see your Aurors are as useless as ours when important matters are concerned.”  
  
“They’re not that bad,” his father immediately replied. There was no conviction in his words though and Raf found herself chuckling along with his godfather.  
  
“The Aurors or the Rôdeurs?” Oscar teased, playing with his hair. “It’s pretty much the same anyway, no matter what you, Avalonians, say.”  
  
“Rude,” Raf shot back with amusement. “We don’t have as much red tape as you, Brits.”  
  
“Of course you don’t. Rôdeurs, like Aurors, are part of the government and.” He winked at him while delivering the rest with a smug smile, “We all know how much of a joke Avalon’s government is.” Raf didn’t even try to hide his laugh. “Plus you’ve got no right to talk, Raf. Must I remind you that your own mother is British?”  
  
His father was grinning when he spoke, “Please, Oscar. Have you seen your Minister? The man is a joke!”  
  
In the corner of his eyes, Raf saw his mother hiding her mouth behind a gloved hand as she stifled a giggle. The witch then put it on her husband’s forearm, delicate features glowing with amusement.  
  
“Oh, dear, be indulgent with Minister Fudge. He isn’t that bad, he just needs some guidance which, fortunately, the best of our society is eager to provide.” Sophia was looking at Oscar, quite thoroughly ignoring Raf’s presence. Not that he would complain about that. “We should be thankful of Lucius’ hard work. Britain would be in a much worse position without his efforts.”  
  
“Indeed. The Malfoys always had silver tongues suited to their affinity for politics. I’m pleased to see that years only sharpened them in Lucius’ case. Audrey and Abraxas would be proud of him. Speaking of which,” Oscar added while taping his fingers on his thighs. Raf wondered why he was more twitchy than usual. “I have yet to see your parents, Sophia.”  
  
“They are with the _Longbottoms_ , Merlin knows why they still accept to frequent that harpy of Augusta.” The witch’s lips curled in obvious distaste at the mention of the name. “Frank and his wretched wife were disgrace to their names and from what I’ve heard, their son could pretty much be a squib and there would be no difference. They even thought he was one until Father decided to throw him out of a window and he bounced.”  
  
Raf’s grip on _Le_ _Bouffon de Rire_ tightened, fingers twitching. His godfather’s gently patted him between the shoulder-blades and he took a deep breath to stop himself from saying or doing anything he would regret later.  
  
Next to him, his father’s expression had lost its usual gentleness. Eyelids closed, he was slowly massaging his temples, when he muttered, “Let’s not go there, darling.”  
  
Even without taking in account Neville Longbottom’s supposedly abysmal capacities as a wizard, Augusta Longbottom née Rookwood—sister of Algernon Rookwood, Sophia’s father—had always been a bone of contention between his parents. If _Sanctitas Sanguinis_ was the foundation of both Avalonian blood traditionalists’ ideology and their British counterpart, the blood purists, Raf had observed the fundamentally different approach the two cultures had of the concept. While his mother denied any blood ties to the Longbottom matriarch _because_ of her political allegiances, his father was of the mind she was family _in spite_ of her allegiances. It was one of these topics they would never agree on. A cultural difference, Raf supposed, that would always be insurmountable for them.   
  
“Lotier is right. Let’s not darken the mood with such a distasteful matter,” Oscar said before Sophia could make the atmosphere any more awkward between the four of them. Raf sent him a grateful smile. “Since we are here for the occasion, who do you think will be crowned champion between Potter and Diggory?”  
  
Raf blinked. Had he missed something? He couldn’t recall any champion being eliminated. “Are Delacour and Krum already out?”  
  
Oscar laughed at his words. “Oh my, you really didn’t pay attention, did you? There were red sparkles and an announcement twice earlier.”   
  
“Raf was reading,” his father answered with a soft smile. “I can’t fault him. It’s not like we can see what’s happening down there. Pity though, I was rooting for Beauxbâtons.”  
  
“Of course you were, Lotier. Just like I was rooting for Hogwarts. And I was right.” Oscar grinned. Raf rolled his eyes in fake exasperation at the childish school loyalty. “Delacour wasn’t that bad. She just wasn’t good enough.”  
  
“Agreed. Potter was a surprise though. I hadn’t expected him to be up to the challenge,” Raf paused, remembering what his brother had said about the boy. “Sin told me Potter, as a student, was pretty average and the most extraordinary thing about the lad was his ability to attract problems every year. You know, their teacher—Quirell was it?—the first year, the Chamber of Secrets the second, Sirius Black the third and now the Tournament. Even if he always manages to survive, that’s a pretty rotten luck.”  
  
“He does is the Boy-Who-Lived. I’m not even surprised anymore. I wouldn’t expect anything else from him.” The stiffness of Oscar’s voice tipped Raf off something was quite not right with him. He focused on him, searching the other’s face for anything weird. There was nothing but his usual affable and charming expression. Maybe it was the reference to the boy who had somehow defeated his master but the younger couldn’t remember him ever be wary of the Potter lad.  
  
“There is still no sign of the champions and I fear all this waiting made me grow hungry,” he suddenly said, putting a hand on Raf’s shoulder. He didn’t miss the faint tremor of his godfather’s limb. The later obviously had noticed his attention, wanted to address it privately but was reluctant to formulate his demand. Typical.  
  
“I am a bit hungry myself,” Raf answered with a smile, already standing up while putting _Le Bouffon de Rire_ back in his bottomless pouch. “Let’s go find something to eat.” He turned to his father. “It was nice seeing you. If you manage to catch him before he’s got to go back to the castle, please pass my greetings to Sin.”  
  
“Of course, honey.” His father waved at him. “Take care, both of you.”   
  
Sophia, as usual, spoke to Oscar as if her own son wasn’t standing right there, “It was a pleasure to meet you here, uncle. We will see you at the Summer Revel. Would it be okay for us to spend the couple of days after at Nightshore Hall?”  
  
“Of course.” He let Raf’s shoulder go, nodding in agreement. Then, always the gentleman, his godfather bent to kiss the witch’s held-out hand. “You are always welcome at Nightshore Hall, my dear niece.” He shook his father’s hand. “Lotier. The pleasure was all mine. I can’t wait to see you both.”  
  
As they made their way out of the stands, it was obvious in the gradually curter answers Oscar provided to the people greeted him that his godfather’s mood was becoming sourer by the minute. After a while, the older wizard hastened his pace and just plainly ignored the few acquaintances they crossed. Definitely out of character, Raf thought, frowning slightly. He decided not to confront him yet as a look at his face, much paler than earlier and expression closed, informed him Oscar wasn’t in his normal state.  
  
They had just passed through the entrance gates when his companion left the road, walking to the thick line of trees, wand in hand. When he finally stopped, moments after, they were alone. The muted orange light filtered by the tree canopy above their head gave Oscar’s now-ashen complexion an eerie glow that complimented well the solemness of his face and coldness of his eyes.  
  
Oscar Mallory Nott had never been one for seriousness and austerity, which Raf knew he associated with a stuffiness he quite despised. Thus, the expression wasn’t one he usually adorned. In fact, the younger couldn’t remember the last time he had seen his godfather like that, nothing but a gravity that reminded Raf that there was more to his granduncle than the chummy wizard who loved partying like a freshly graduate, even when he wasn’t assuming his Knightly identity.  
  
“What happened?” Raf whispered as soon as the other had cast privacy charms. He chose not to mention how sick Oscar looked or the sweat glistening on his forehead, knowing he would only be insulted.  
  
The wizard opened his mouth. No sound came out and he closed it. He slowly shook his head, fingers nervously playing with curls that, in the sunset light, resembled strands of glistening gold. The expression he adorned, a mix of disappointment, resignation and annoyance, Raf found, wasn’t one that suited him at all. In this moment, he looked so similar to Sophia when she allowed herself to look at Raf that he couldn’t help flinching.   
  
Oscar’s silence was heavy, pressing even but Raf forced himself to respect it, squashing his desire to interrogate him away. If the other wasn’t ready to talk yet, pressing the issue would only piss him off, which wasn’t the goal.  
  
After what seemed like an eternity, Oscar took the border of his left sleeve between his thumb and index, then slowly lifted the hazelnut velvet to reveal the inside of his forearm. Even though he didn’t take it all the way up, it was enough for Raf to see the puffy redness of the skin and the inky dark, bolder than the last time he had ever seen—stolen glances here and there—during the last fourteen years. The reptile was undulating, the area around irritated and looking slightly swollen as if attacked by the snake’s movements.  
  
Raf had no doubt it was as painful as it looked, if not more. No wonder the other’s sudden weird demeanour. He didn’t ask for how long he had been suffering, undoubtedly before they had excused themselves from the stands, maybe even before he had noticed his godfather’s twitchiness.  
  
Oscar was a proud man. He would be offended at his pity and insulted if _Raf,_ of all people, would feel that way for him. As such, even though the younger ached for the man who was more family to him than his own mother, he took the time to school his features into a blank mask, only speaking when he knew his voice would be steady.  
  
“What do you need me to do?”  
  
Oscar took a step back, releasing his sleeve. With that, he regained his composure, his expression less tense as a tiny smile graced his youthful face. When their eyes met, his seemed a little brighter and definitely calmer, as if hiding the mark away was enough to make his worries disappear. Raf smiled in encouragement at his efforts.  
  
“I’ll find you after at the Hog’s Head. Wait for me as your alter ego but don’t contact the others yet.”  
  
Raf pursed his lips, not quite convinced of the wisdom of such a decision when he knew Voldemort hadn’t been quite himself in the last years before his demise—or rather, what Oscar had said the Dark Lord had been when he had first decided to follow him—and there was no guarantee the Dark Lord would have his sanity back tonight.  
  
“What if you don’t make it?”  
  
“I don’t think He will get rid of us so soon. Not when there’s so few of us left. He needs us too much for that,” Oscar replied with a wry smile. “I do hope He will be glad enough to be back to forego any particularly unpleasant punishment,” he concluded with a small forced chuckle.  
  
“Go then. I heard he isn’t the patient type.”  
  
“That He is not,” his godfather laughed, more sincerely this time. After what, scowling all the way through, he detached the onyx broach representing the Nott arms—a serpent coiled around a grim—from his silken dark blue cloak to transfigure it into a mask. “I really hate to use family jewels for that kind of thing but no time to go home and search for the damned thing,” he grumbled.   
  
Raf made a small smile. If the wizard was able to complain about clothes in this situation, he was already better. Next, he took his cape between two fingers, turning the material black. He sniffed as he put the mask on and drew the hood up.  
  
“I really hate these egregious uniforms.”  
  
“Just go, you vain oaf. You wouldn’t want more than just your fashion sense being hurt.”   
  
The old coot didn’t grace him with an answer, finally Apparating away. Raf rubbed the bridge of his nose as he tried to ignore the twisting of his guts and certitude that the night would be long.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Translations:_
> 
>  
> 
> _Fatum fellat._  
>  Fate sucks.
> 
> _Sanctitas Sanguis_  
>  Holiness of the Blood
> 
> * * *
> 
> **CODEX**
> 
>  
> 
> **Avalon, France and Gallica** — The Kingdom of Avalon, often shortened to Avalon, is a city-state located into Brocéliande, the magical part of the Paimpont Forest situated in Brittany (France). During King Arthur's reign, it used to be part of Britain and one of the most important city of the Kingdom. After his death though, because of its location, Avalon was cut off of the rest of Britain. Avalon is not a part of the French Republic of Magic, but the two nations are tied very closely by a treaty called the Covenant of the Gauls, which unites both countries under a sovereign entity called Gallica.
> 
> **Homunculus (pl. Homunculi)** — Artificial humans made by alchemy. They are considered as a type of familiar and often called "the house-elves of the mundane" for their cheaper prices and relatively short durability compared to house-elves.
> 
> **Le Bouffon de Rire** — A satirical daily newspaper in Avalon that also is distributed in France. Literal translation is _the Buffoon of Laughter_ but it is also a pun on the expression "pouffons de rire" (except for the first letter, bouffon and pouffons have the same pronunciation in French) that translate to _let's burst out laughing_.
> 
> * * *
> 
> **Notes:** Every chapter will be broken into present (from 1995 onwards) and past (which might jump around a bit). I know it might seem pretty random, but there are reasons it's that way. If you're wondering. Voldemort starts appearing from chapter 3, but Dumbledore himself won't appear until later. It's all very slow build. Anyway, thanks for reading!


	3. II - Auribos teneo lupum.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Where Harry Potter meets someone who may be, or not, Albus Dumbledore in disguise. He doesn't quite know what to think about that but, at least, he's got his hearing back. Where Dagonet and Agravain prove that loving each other doesn't stop them from loathing each other._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can now **hover you cursor over** the sentences in a foreign language to have the translations :) Of course, I still keep them in the notes at the end of each chapter.
> 
> It took me far too many tries to get the first part in shape. Also, very long AN at the end.

* * *

**II.**  
_Auribos teneo lupum._

* * *

**21st of June, 1992**

Harry couldn’t help sighing as he sat. When he shifted baby Ea to ease the pressure on his sore arms, the toddler moved to nestle against his chest but, much to the wizard’s relief, didn’t stir from his sleep. The house-elf who that transported them barely looked at them before Disapparating.  
  
Since it was the only thing he could do for now, he looked around. He had been dropped into a study. While there were no windows, the transparent pointed ceiling let in plenty of light from the dawn sky outside. The walls were hidden, either by shelves full of magazines or behind thick layers of neatly cut pieces of newspapers and sticky notes. Scattered here and there on the ground, were neat piles of thick books, multicoloured sticky flags peaking from their side.  
  
He was currently seating on a long viridian sectional sofa placed in the middle of the room, part of it buried under rolls of parchment. Not far from his feet rested a glass jug half-full with what looked like red tea, probably forgotten there by the owner as they had been scribbling on the notebook stilled open on the coffee table on Harry’s left.   
  
He peeked curiously at the semi-cursive handwriting and the large blocky paragraphs they formed around annotated diagrams and drawings. Of the content itself, he couldn’t decipher anything: not only because the letters were small and the words seemed not always written entirely, but it wasn’t English. Knowing that he wouldn’t be able to decipher the notes, he fast lost interest in them.  
  
Without anything to occupy his mind, the myriad of questions and thoughts he had pushed away until now came crashing back upon him in a whirl of confusion. Where was he? Why here? What had happened back there? Who were these two people that had been with Althea, then the ones waiting outside? What would happen now? What was he supposed to do?   
  
In the eye of the tempest lied the Graal’s parting words. _The exact point in space and time where I was born_.   
  
Harry looked down at the seemingly perfectly normal baby, feeling like… No, not feeling but _knowing_ that all the answers were lying there even though they were completely out of his grasp for the moment. He frowned, trying to organise his thoughts. What did he know for sure?  
  
The wizard passed a hand over his face, concentrating to remember every scrap of informations he could on the alchemist and his son. There wasn’t much though. They came from Avalon, a place that he had learnt was not nearly as mythical as he had once believed. Althea had obviously been of some important social status because the group of refugees he had came with listened to his every words, clinging to them as if he was their saviour, and though Harry couldn’t know, maybe he had been. Ea was both his son and a Graal, which Harry still had problems reconciling with the fact that Arthurian legends spoke of a cup, an object, not a human recipient. It reminded him f—  
  
A light tap on his shoulder nearly made him jump in surprise, breaking him out of his thoughts. It wasn’t the house-elf from earlier, but the pink-haired middle age witch, its owner he guessed, who had “spoken” before the little creature had Apparated Ea and him here, far too fast for Harry to even say anything.   
  
She made a apologetic smile when their eyes met, then too a step back, waving her wand in the air. Like earlier, the words she was speaking appeared in glittering letters in the air.  
  
_Sorry the wait. I’m sure you have lots of questions but let’s take a look at your ears first._  
  
Harry nodded, letting himself sink into the comfy sofa, trying to relax as he warily watched her approach. He couldn’t help be feel uneasy at having a wand pointed at any part of his head, no matter if it was to help him. His fingers twitched, aching to reach for his own wand, even though he knew there was no immediate danger: if these people wanted to get rid of him, they had had plenty of opportunities already. He was just being paranoid.  
  
When a hand cupped his face and gently turned his head on the side, he pointedly kept looking at the golden beautiful patterns knotted into the luxurious-looking carpet. As something cold filled his right ear, came the sensation of his head being stuffed with cotton. His family and friends would probably have teased him if they had been able to see him like that, gnawing nervously at his inferior lip, a habit he had thought lost with the end of his teenage years. Really, in that position, he felt like more like a child than the nearly-fifty years old wizard with far-too-many-titles-to-list he really was.   
  
The witch turned his head the other side and he saw him standing in the doorway. The wizard was now free from all the dust he had been covered earlier, when they had still been in the thrice damned hell of a building. Even with his features half-hidden, Harry had known the other was old, but he hadn’t expected the skin to be wrinklier than used leather or the silvery hair tied into a bun. The tip of his beard had been carefully braided. His bushy eyebrow only reinforced the extravagant air the small round green-tinted glasses on the bridge of his nose gave him. Those hadn’t been there before.  
  
When piercing eyes met his, Harry’s heartbeat accelerated as he realised who this old man was reminding him of. He lacked the  crooked nose and horrendous robes but the feeling of old and incredibly wise that Harry had associated with Dumbledore—before he had learnt that Dumbledore was as human as the rest of them—was the same.  
  
There was a popping sound as the cold stuff in his ears hardened.  
  
“ — _ais ça devrait être bon maintenant._ ” He turned his head in the direction of the sound so fast it made his neck hurt. “ _Ah, voilà, il entend de nouveau_ ” the witch was saying and Harry couldn’t care less about not understanding a single word because he was _hearing_ again.  
  
She was grinning as she took a step back. When Harry opened his mouth, she shushed him. “Just hold on for a minute, my dear sir, and let me explain. Your eardrums were ruptured, which is why you were deaf.” She rose her right hand, which was holding not only her wand but also a small grey jar shape like an ear, the word Tymporaire labelled in white on the helix. “This is what I put in your ears, it’s a cream called Tymporaire. Once hardened—that’s the popping sound you heard—it replaces your eardrums while they heal and provide protection against infection.” Even if the buzzing had subsided, the witch’s voice sounded distorted and its volume inconsistent. “You shouldn’t suffer from too many side-effects but don’t be surprised if you sometimes feels dizzy, have balance issues, buzzing or ringing ear, it’s normal. It will naturally fall once you’ll be healed and with brand new eardrums. However, you need to know that it hasn’t restored your hearing acuity to one-hundred-percent. It will go up as your eardrums reconstruct though.”  
  
Harry nodded. He wouldn’t complain, anything was better than not being able to hear at all. “How long will it take?”   
  
“Minimum one month up to three months. After four months, just go ask some help at the guild.” He frowned in incomprehension. What was “the guild”? Before he could ask though, she was continuing, “The Tymporaire uses your own magic to maintain themselves. It means that the lower your magical reserves are, the worse it will perform. If your reserves are depleted, it will just stop functioning until it’s got new fuel to go on.”   
  
“Okay, I’ll keep that in mind.”  
  
“Please do.” She turned to the old wizard then. “ _Maintenant que ça, c’est fait, je te le laisse. Je m’inquiète pour Althea et Callie. Si tu as besoin de moi, je serai avec eux._ ” She waited until he nodded before looking back at Harry. “Well then, now that’s taken care of, I’m leaving you with old Nick. I believe you’ve got much to talk about.”  
  
The wizard, old Nick, Harry supposed, put a hand on the witch’s shoulder as she stepped out of the room. Then with a swiftness he hadn’t exposed from a man that looked much older than anyone he had ever seen, the man moved into the high-back emerald armchair facing the sofa Harry was seating on.  
  
Well, the witch wasn’t wrong. There was indeed much to talk about and for now, this Nick was probably the best person to talk to since Althea wasn’t in any state to answer his questions, Ea was still a baby and the other girl looked far too young—she couldn’t have older than thirteen—to have any understanding of what had happened. Not that it mattered much when the alchemist didn’t know Harry yet and that these people had as much right to question Harry’s suspiciously timed arrival as him them about the mess he had found himself in.  
  
He braced himself for what he felt would be a long and hard discussion and, after a deep breath, eventually said, “I suppose you’re ‘old Nick’?”  
  
“Well,” the man began with a impish grin plastered on his face that made him look like an overgrown child. “It would be a lie to say I’m not old, or that I’m not a Nick either, which is why some of my friends do call me that. However.” His eyes gained a twinkle that made Harry wonder if he wasn’t just Dumbledore in disguise and he was actually having an extremely weird nightmare. “I usually am known as Nicolas Flamel.”

 

* * *

**24th of June, 1995**

“An’ ‘en! Boo’! ‘e ‘ack ‘gain an’ ‘re cheerin’ but he’s ’reamin’ he’ dea’ but ‘e can… can’t un’stand…” Agravain’s drunk of a stool neighbour was slurring and he stopped himself from telling her that whatever she was trying to say, he couldn’t understand either.  
  
The Knight didn’t pay more attention to the witch’s foolish ramblings in favour of nibbling on the fish fingers Aberforth had bought for him earlier. As instructed per his godfather, after getting his Crest Glamour on and making sure he was as ready as he could be for what would probably be a very long night, Agravain had headed for the Hog’s Head.  
  
It seemed like it had happened in the blink of an eye. One instant, he was deeply in thoughts, worried about Oscar’s health and his master’s return, then a clamour had stirred him back to reality, only for him to realise that the seedy pub was suddenly heaving with people, compared to its usual attendance anyway. Somewhen during his first pint, the relative calm had been replaced by the strong odour of sweat and agitation, nervousness charging the atmosphere. People couldn’t stop muttering to their neighbours while getting drunk, without a care if they knew them or not. It had reminded Agravain of that day, fourteen years ago, when the rumours of the Dark Lord’s demise had propagated through Britain faster a snitch in flight.  
  
The Knight had been listening to what was being said since, trying to decipher some kind of truth in a bunch of stories he knew were already exaggerated, if completely false. The only thing he felt was true was the disappearance of Harry Potter and Cedric Diggory when they had touched the cup at the same time. It was improbable, but seemed less far-stretched than a lightning bolt hitting the centre of the maze, killing Diggory on the spot. Or Potter changing his mind at the last moment about sharing the cup, only to casting the Killing Curse at Diggory. Agravain didn’t know many fourteen years-old capable of using the Killing Curse and he doubted the rather ordinary teenager his younger brother sometimes talked about would have the peculiar intent needed to cast it successfully, not even if that boy was Harry Potter.   
  
In the end however, the Knight just had to wait for Dagonet to return until he would learn the truth. He really hoped Oscar was right and his lord would be too glad to be back to torture his followers into shivering messes. With some chance, Voldemort would even have regained some semblance of sanity. Agravain was aware that his fellow Knight was well acquainted with pain—whether inflicting or receiving it—certainly wasn’t an easy person to break but, he couldn’t help the twisting sensation of his guts when he thought of him back under his master’s influence. Even with the messes they had to deal with as Knights of the Round Table, Oscar hadn’t looked as happy as he had been while raising his own son, free from the spectre of pain Voldemort had cast upon his acolytes the years preceding his defeat.  
  
A bang stirred him back to reality. Agravain rose an eyebrow at Aberforth, who had put another pint of Grin Got in front of him, staring at him from behind his spectacles. The Knight returned the stare, quite adamant in not squirming under piercing blue eyes that seemed to see through his Crest Glamour as if it was nothing more than a simple illusion. It wasn’t the first time, probably would not be the last, but it still unsettled him.  
  
“What?” the Knight eventually grunted, turning away to glance at the door.  
  
When he looked back at the barman, the later’s lips were pursed. “Every single time you come, you order this,” he answered as gruffly as ever, waving at the beverage. “I still can’t believe you like this goblin dung, boy.”  
  
Ever after a decade-and-a-half years of being a Knight, Agravain still marvelled at the way his Crest Glamour modified his high-pitched voice into a deeper and much more masculine baritone. “I find ze name funny,” he answered truthfully, slipping into the thick French accent he used whenever he had to speak English while wearing his Knightly attire.  
  
“You’re as bad as goblins,” Aberforth grumbled, rolling his eyes when the Knight winked at him. The mead was an authentic goblin brew, from the Kobold clan if one wanted to be precise. It just happened that the Kobold clan was also the one in charge of Gringotts and had a wicked sense of humour Agravain only agree with. “So, tell me. You don’t look like you came straight from the Third Task to drink your stupor away. Why you’re here?”  
  
“Can’t I enjoy zis fine specimen off Grin Got?” The Knight couldn’t help the shit-eating grin. If he was in for one hell of a night, at least would he enjoy himself until he had no choice but to jump into more serious matters.  
  
“Nobody enjoys this _piss of shit_ ,” the barman replied, rubbing a filthy glass with a cloth that somehow seemed even dirtier than the recipient itself. “Not even goblins.” Touché. While the beverage overall was awful—especially after the first three gulps—Agravain was fond of the mineral aftertaste. “You’re not a lonely drinker, boy. You might come often but you never come here alone,” he added as if it was just an afterthought but his eyes were sharp and focused.   
  
“Don’t worry, Aberfors.” Aberforth’s perpetual wince at hearing his name butchered never ceased to amuse Agravain and he continued with a smile, “I’m not joining ze legion of lonely drinkers zat populates your pub. I’m just waiting for Dagonet.” Seeing the barman’s frown, he supplied, “‘e never introduced himself, did he? Ze clown. ‘e’s ze clown. Ze one wiz white plastered all over ‘is ugly face, wiz no eyebrows and far too much make-up. You know, bright red all around ‘is eyes and bright violet lipstick.”  
  
“Ah yes, I see, the creepy one. Quite the character, that one.”   
  
After these words, Aberforth moved unto serving other customers and Agravain’s attention went back to the entrance door, looking for any sign of Dagonet as it opened. The face was definitely not Dagonet, but the familiar features instantly pushed the Knight on his feet. A mix of worry and furry pushed him through the crowd, without a care about roughly pushing people out of his way with a precise use of his feet and elbows.    
  
He opened the door with one hand, maybe with a bit too much force, while gripping the idiot’s high collar with the other and hauling him out of the tavern. He turned right into the dark blind alley bordering the building, pushing the other against the nearest wall. Then, he pressed his body against his. Curious passers-by would only see lovers that were far too drunk to care for a bed and avert their eyes before asking themselves other questions. And if their proximity stopped the boy from moving and made him uncomfortable? All the better.  
  
“What! The! _Bloody_! Hell! Are! You! Doing! Here!”   
  
As always, anger made Agravain lose the fake accent. He realised that his hands were trembling. The Knight took a deep breath to get a hold of himself. He wouldn’t be much good if he let his emotions completely dominate him. He very slowly unfurled his fist from the fabric to splay them against the stone, on each side of the Squire’s head.   
  
Whispering between gritted teeth, he continued in their mother-tongue, “ _You’re supposed to be in your bloody dormitory, in bloody Hogwarts, you complete dimwit! What if they realise a student is missing? Aren’t Ravenclaws supposed to be_ intelligent?”  
  
Agravain stopped himself to catch his breath, eyes scanning his brother’s face for any reaction, any admittance that the teenager was being incredibly stupid. His brother being who he was, Agravain wasn’t surprised not to see a single trace of shame. The little scoundrel looked completely unfazed by his words, watching him unblinking eyes as if the Knight was being the foolish one.  
  
“ _Pray tell why you_ _thought it was a_ good _idea to take a walk out of the castle tonight? Do you even know what the hell you’re doing or is it another one of your stu—_ ”  
  
He was interrupted by his brother pressing the palm of his hands on his cheeks, muffling his words until Agravain stopped speaking. “ _Please calm down,_ ” he muttered and the Knight settled on glaring at the teenager. “ _Let me explain. Please?_ ” he added after a while. He didn’t wait for Agravain’s answer though. “ _I got to talk with Father before having to get back to the castle with the other students. If I happened to_ hear _or_ see _anything, he told me I would find you here tonight._ ”   
  
Agravain’s eyes immediately went to the thick thorny black line that currently adorned his brother’s left wrist, guts clenching at what he knew was coming because the damn brat never lost an occasion to make a point. Transfixed, he watched with disgust the line _crawl_ its way under the pale skin, twisting until it curled around the fingers, where the Knight could _feel_ it move against his own skin. He instantly stepped back at the repugnant sensation, wondering, not for the first time, how could anyone could live with _that_ under their skin, no matter what perks came with it.  
  
“ _From what I witnessed, there are things much more important than a Ravenclaw out of his dormitory happening at the castle tonight._ ”  
  
“ _Which is exactly where we’re going and we don’t have much time so if the both of you could follow._ ” Even without the ridiculous accent he chose when Dagonet spoke French wearing his Crest Glamour—as Oscar, he had lost his accent through decades of practice. Not that Agravain was the one to talk about the use of ridiculous accent—he would recognise the peculiar ear-grating high-pitched voice anywhere. “ _Don’t worry, I’ve already taken care of anything pertaining to our privacy and discretion while the both of you were otherwise occupied._ ”   
  
Agravain sent a venomous glance at his bloody prat of a little brother before turning his head to the entry of alley. Dagonet was standing there, in all his dreadful clownish glory, with flashy mismatched clothes and large colourful feathers attached to his tied hair as if he was a peafowl showing off its tail. A purple line barred his face, forming a grin that went from one cheekbone to the other, even when he wasn’t smiling.    
  
Really, it must have been nice not to have to worry about conspicuous clothes when one could cast the most powerful Disillusionment Charm Agravain had ever seen, or transfigure what they were wearing in something else as if it was as natural as breathing, in a way that used to make his stomach twist with envy before he had eventually managed to beat into his head that he couldn’t do anything about it and that invisibility cloaks were made for the rest of them, ordinary folks. That even Dagonet himself used invisibility cloaks.  
  
“ _Well, if you could get a move on, please. We don’t have all night. You can continue scolding the boy later, not that it looked very efficient from my point of view, mind you._ ”   
  
As he walked to him, Agravain examined the older Knight for any apparent injuries or aftereffects of the Cruciatus Curse. Relief filled him when he could see no trembling. The sneer on his face as he watched them approach was nothing unusual. The absent way he was touching his bottom lip with the blue tip of a long pointed index was his usual thinking position. All in all, he looked fairly normal, as if it was just an ordinary night.  
  
“ _Plus, he might prove quite useful tonight,_ ” Dagonet added as they followed the road out of the village.  
  
Agravain gritted his teeth, sending his younger brother a look that meant this was not finished at all, before he told Dagonet, “ _I really don’t like the sound of that._ ”  
  
The clown waved his hand in the air in dismissal, making his fellow Knight’s dark mood even sourer and volatile. It took only the time for Agravain to remind himself to speak French before he questioned Dagonet, “ _Will you tell us what the bloody hell is happening?_ ”  
  
“ _Your Crest Glamour always makes such a hassle to deal with that awfully Gryffondorish temper of yours_ ,” Dagonet drawled and Agravain could hear the sneer in his voice. That was _rich_ coming from _him_.   
  
“ _Look who’s talking, going into some kind of self-imposed mission we were certainly_ not _attributed. How are we supposed to do if you won’t give us anything about the situation?_ ” he answered back without even trying to hide his irritation.  
  
Crest Glamours, amongst all the changes they draped them in to hide their birth identities, also affected their owner’s personalities, twisting some parts here and there. Not enough as to make them a complete other person, but enough to make them _different_. In their case, the temper Agravain had no problem keeping in check when not shrouded in his Crest Glamour, tended to get the better of him while Dagonet’s arrogance and viciousness seemed multiplied. Even though in their birth identities, they were as close as ones could get, as Knights, they didn’t get along _at all_ and it usually didn’t take long for the one to grate on the other’s nerves.  
  
With the long exaggerated sigh Dagonet let out—in the corner of his eyes, Agravain saw his brother passed a hand on his face—there was no doubt that the other was already as getting as annoyed as Agravain himself.  
  
“ _One,_ ” the clown began lifting two fingers up in the air, without even turning to look at them. “ _I believe I must have mentioned the ratty Pettigrew in the past. It so happens that the cowering mongrel is alive and actually a rat Animagus, much to surprise of no one, except for the fact that he actually managed to become an Animagus. But then, even worms have some kind of survival instincts that push them to do things worms would normally not do._ ” He uncurled a third finger. “ _Two. The Dark Lord managed to get himself a new body, one I have no doubt would sent the Commander into fits of anguish over the sheer ugliness and wrongness of it. Trust me, I have seen better quality in golems of the worst alchemy markets of Avalon can offer. It is no doubt another display of Pettigrew’s mediocre talent regarding anything that doesn’t pertain to the art of licking boots._ ”   
  
The heavy hand on his shoulder and shaking of head his brother stopped Agravain from mentioning that Dagonet himself must had done plenty of boot-licking during all his years of service and that he would probably had to hone his rusty skills back to their sharpest because he was about to get to use them very soon, probably very often.  
  
The older Knight stopped right in his track, his voice taking a shrill accent as he said, “ _Wipe that atrociously smug smile off your face. I don’t have to see you to know what you’re thinking right now._ ” He didn’t turn though—not yet, Agravain thought, but it would come. It always did—and only uncurled another finger, making him look positively ridiculous with four fingers up in the air. “ _Three. Potter has yet again eluded the Dark Lord by taking the cup—yes, the cup was a portkey—back to Hogwarts. There was a bit of talk between far too much scolding, even though it’s the Dark Lord’s fault for rattling instead of taking the damn slippery boy out in the first place._ ” He lazily waved his hand, without uncurling his thumb though. “ _Four. He said that the ‘most dedicated’_.” Agravain couldn’t help but admire the sheer amount of contempt Dagonet managed to put in the two words. “ _Of us was currently at Hogwarts, the one who probably tempered with Pettigrew’s natural incompetence and is the actual reason He’s back. No, I do not know either who this is. I can definitely tell it’s not Snape. I saw his trial, how Dumbledore defended him and his blatant absence at the gathering. The boy definitely isn’t ‘most dedicated’ material._ ”  
  
Agravain stopped himself from rubbing the bridge of his nose. He already knew where that was going. All in all, the mysterious’ Death Eater didn’t matter because Dagonet obviously had in mind a rescue mission of some sort. If Potter had been at the Dark Lord’s mercy and somehow escaped back to Hogwarts, then the whole school must already was actively searching for the Voldemort’s agent. He could already tell what was going through Dagonet’s mind: rescuing the guy and already gaining his master’s favour. Well, if that wasn’t a desperate attempt at boot-licking. The other should know better than drag the Knights into a task that could end up extremely awry for Avalon if they failed. For Merlin’s sake, they didn’t even _know_ who was the damned guy!   
  
He took an inspiration, ready to give the older Knight a piece of his mind when the later muttered, “ _And here I thought I wouldn’t have to do this._ ” His voice was quieter in a way that Agravain’s skin prickle as he uncurled his thumb and said, “ _Five._ ” Agravain suddenly jumped back but he had reacted just one instant too late. He still found himself with a hand around the neck, pressuring his windpipe until he choke. “ _Now, Agravain, listen carefully because, obviously, neither of use are in the right state of mind to deal with each other more than necessary tonight. I know what’s going through your mind right now and you would do well to keep your thoughts to yourself. If the late Commander has been accepting of my meddling manners, it’s because they_ work _. Your approval, or lack of, is inconsequential, I just need you stay quiet and obey like I know you know very well how to. Is that understood,_ child _?_ ”  
  
If Oscar usually despised any form of physical violence, which Agravain knew he found quite uncouth and mundane, so beneath of his stature, he was still both a Death Eater and a Knight. Both were similar in the way that violence was an inherent part of their life. Not matter what wonders the Crest Glamour did, it couldn’t create a whole new persona out of thin air, just enhance or reduce certain aspects. Dagonet had always lacked the restraint his godfather displayed; he should have known something like this would happen.  
  
Still, Agravain refused to submit and staring right into his small hazy eyes, trying ignore both the uncomfortable pressure around his throat and the angry flush he knew tainted his own face. Even when he felt the sharp nail scrapping his skin, undoubtedly drawing blood, he didn’t bulge. There was no way he would back down right now, not when he absolutely _abhorred_ when Dagonet pulled the elder argument like the younger was somehow new and inexperienced at a position he had been holding for the last fourteen years _despite_ his own shortcomings. The sick clown might have been a Knight for the last fifty years, it still didn’t make Agravain’s experience worthless.  
  
“ _I believe we’re short on time and I still have to tell what I saw and heard_.”   
  
His brother’s sharp voice cut through the tension like it was nothing and he didn’t seem impressed with either of them when they suddenly wiped their head on the side to watch him. He could only admire the teenager’s blank face, a proof of his self control, as Dagonet squinted his eyes at him, his expression looking between amusement and annoyance, as if he was contemplating whether to punish or reward the teenager for stepping in where he should have had no business. Automatically, Agravain coiled his body, ready to attack the other if he made the mistake of going after his brother.  
  
The clown eventually turned back to him, extremely slowly, a sick grin plastered all over his face. “ _Didn’t I tell you he might prove himself quite useful?_ ”   
  
And just like that, he laughed that skin-crawling awful laugh of him before letting go. A lazy wave of his wand and pricking sensation around his neck was soothed. He passed a hand over it, the skin smooth under his palm as if the older hadn’t been clawing at it only moments before.   
  
He sent a thankful glance at his brother who answered with the tiniest nod before his eyes went to Dagonet. “ _I know who this is. Or rather, who he’s not and where to find him_ ,” the Squire said, a finger tracing the contour of his wrist and Agravain couldn’t help averting his eyes away, deciding not to dwell on how exactly he had managed to learn that. “ _Sir Agravain, I believe I mentioned we had been given demonstration of the Unforgivable Curses in class? This is courtesy of the importer who took professor Moody’s place. He was being detained in his office when I skipped out to find you. I can’t guarantee he’s still there, but there’s still a chance they haven’t whisk him away yet. In anyway case, we should hurry._ ”  
  
“ _You said ‘they’. Who exactly is ‘they’?_ ”  
  
It was subtle but Agravain didn’t miss the way the corners of his brother’s mouth fell a little at his question, or the small pause before he answered, “ _When I left, Potter was there, though he’s not really that dangerous._ ” He made a wry smile as he added, “ _I wouldn’t say the same about professors Dumbledore, McGonagall and Snape though._ ”  
  
_Wonderful._ This time, Agravain didn’t stop himself from rubbing the bridge his nose. He sighed. At least, he figured, things could hardy get more tedious or difficult. A frontal assault had never been an option to begin with when Dagonet wasn’t much of a duelist to begin with—“ _how inelegant to be waving his wand around like some uneducated simian!_ ”—and himself hadn’t became a Knight because of his magical prowess.  
  
Really, it was quite pitiful that the _fifteen year-old teenager_ was more skilful in that area than the _seventy-three and nearly thirty years old Knights,_ but then, it told more about their lack of talent in that area than anything else. Not that Oghma wasn’t talented of course: he was a Squire and his brother after all, but he was still fifteen. There was no way he would endanger his brother’s school career so stupidly, not in such an obvious lost cause.  
  
But then, he couldn’t think a way get managed to get in and out unnoticed. Disillusionment Charm and invisibility cloaks would be useless if they couldn’t even see who they were supposed to follow and the three of them wouldn’t fit under a single invisibility cloak either. Even if they did, their progression would be far too slow and awkward. And although his brother would go back to his dormitory, they would still have to deal with the imposter, whose actual state they didn’t know about. The poor lad could very probably be in no way to walk, much less run if needed. No, Agravain was sure they would had to run at on point or another. With his luck, it would be while having to carry the guy and avoid spells at the same time. No need to say, it wasn’t an easy feat to accomplish.  
  
“ _I hope you have a brilliant plan at hand, Dagonet, because I’m completely at loss at how to proceed,_ ” he eventually told the other, not without irritation had hearing him hum and looking completely relaxed. It should have reassured him to see him like that but the younger didn’t like the calculating glint in his eyes as he was examining him from head to toe, tapping his wand against his thigh.  
  
“ _Well, I do have an idea in mind,_ ” he said, a shit-eating grin forming on his lips and whatever plan he had, Agravain would probably not like it. “ _As you never cease to tell me, my most distinctive quality is—_ ”  
  
“ _Your vanity. Trust me, we won’t forget any time soon._ ”  
  
His fellow Knight took a step back, an indolent smile on his smug face as he pointed his wand at him, making patterns Agravain had never seen before. “ _That I do know my way around Human Transfiguration._ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Translations:_
> 
> _Auribos teneo lupum._  
>  literary, it translates to “I hold a wolf by the ears”, it means the same as “to have a tiger by the tail”.
> 
>  _“—ais ça devrait être bon maintenant.”_  
>  —ut it should be good now.
> 
>  _“Ah, voilà, il entend de nouveau,”_  
>  “Ah, there, he hears again,”
> 
>  _“Maintenant que ça, c’est fait, je te le laisse. Je m’inquiète pour Althea et Callie. Si tu as besoin de moi, je serai avec eux.”_  
>  “Well, now that's done, I'm leaving him to you. I'm worried for Althea and Callie. If you need me, I'll be with them.”
> 
> * * *
> 
> **CODEX**
> 
> **Crest Glamour** — A Knight's name is a title being passed from a Knight to his successor so that, even if the faces change, the name stays. As such, every Knight lives with two distinct identities, their Knight public persona or alter ego, and their birth identity which must stay secret to everyone who isn't a Knight. The Crest Glamour is an enchanted device called a Crest—but isn't necessarily a crest—the Knights always carry on them. It contains their Crest Glamour, the appearance they appear in as using their public Knight persona. The Crest Glamour not only modifies physical appearance, but also tweaks certain aspects of their owner's personality in order to make the differentiation between the two identities easier.
> 
>  **Squires** — The Squires are apprentices to the Knights, learning the responsibilities and work of their masters before becoming Knights themselves later, most of the time, years later. Squires are also given a Crest Glamour.
> 
> * * *
> 
>  **Notes:** So, Nicolas Flamel finally appears! Since he was tagged in the character, it was time. Well, technically speaking, he was mentioned in the last chapter but that was like just in a paragraph, though it already reveals what kind of position both Althea and him hold. Next chapter will be his talk with Harry and through it, more informations about Avalon and what happened. Kudos if you already found though! It seems obvious to me, but then I'm writing the whole thing so I'm biased. Also, still on Flamel, he definitely is _not_ Dumbledore in disguise.
> 
> Voldemort _will_ finally appear next chapter, as will Barty since it's obviously him that they want to rescue. This is the reason why I put "Post-Canon" for future!Harry who travels back in time, but also "Canon-Divergence" and "Post-Goblet of Fire" since future!Harry's second timeline actual diverges from the canon one (his original timeline) started from that point. Well I mean, he was doing things on his side but until then, it had yet to affect canon. And yes, there are two Harry in this "new" timeline.
> 
> Also, I only tag important/recurrent canon characters as they appears, which is why Dumbledore isn't tagged yet, though he will definitely appear since there is Harry & Dumbledore and Voldemort & Dumbledore. Same for relationships, I'll tag them as they come. I won't individually tag the Knights of the Round Table though since I feel like the whole "Knights of the Round Table" is sufficient.
> 
> And finally, about languages, if you're wondering about the French accent and where I take it from, it's from experience. As in I'm French and this is how some people legitimately pronounce some words. I mean "think" could be pronounce either as "sink" or "fink", the first one would the thickest accent of the two. In the same way, "this" could be "zis" or "dis" and "either" could become "eizer" or "eiver". Most French who debut in English also pronounce "of" "off", hence the fact that Agravain does it like that. 
> 
> The language Agravain/Raf speaks with his brother and that he calls his mother tongue is Breton, not French. If I'm following the point of view of a character who is polyglot (which, to be fair are most Avalonians since they grow up in a culture that's bilingual in Breton/French), unless I make a specific distinction in the narration/or another character call them out, I won't indicate which language is spoken since by experience, people easily switch behind two languages or tend to borrow words/expressions of a language into another and I feel like it'd be pointless to make that kind of indication.


	4. III - Carpe noctem.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Where Agravain learns of the Knight Commender's genial masterplan and neither Yvain and nor him are impressed. Where Voldemort has many non-surprises, some of which, he could do without. Where Harry Potter discovers that Nicolas Flamel, above all, is gifted with a terrible personality._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Hover** you cursor over the sentences in a foreign language for their translations. Or look at the end of the chapter.

* * *

**III.**  
_Carpe noctem._

* * *

**25th of June, 1995**

“ _Master Agravain looks positively awful_ ,” Savate greeted him cheerily as soon as Agravain had closed the door behind him. He wasn’t surprised to see the house-elf perched on the fireplace mantel, her layered multicoloured pillow-cases dress spilled all around like bright splashes of paint.  
  
“ _Tonight’s been hectic_ ,” he sighed. He sat on his bed, hands already up to untie his turban. For the first time in a long while, he thought about the box hidden in a small compartment under the mattress. The broken promises and hopeless futures he had carefully locked into it ages ago, certain that this part of his life was over for good. But the—  
  
The Knight slowly rubbed his nose. This was neither relevant or important to the situation, no need to linger on that part of his past for now.  
  
“ _And it’s not even finished_ ,” he added as he stripped his armour and weapons off, throwing them on the plush carpet that separated his bed from the fireplace. “ _I still need to make my report to the Commander_.” That was the easy part. Galaad was quite easy-going compared to his predecessor and encouraged Knights to be more proactive than they had been under the late Perceval’s commandership. The part Agravain was really not looking forward too would come after, one of Oscar’s great ideas. “ _Then, I’m going to be introduced to bloody_ Voldemort!”  
  
When he looked at her, after removing his vest and stockings, Savate was staring at him, her large eyes unblinking and nose scrunched, hands on her hips. “ _Then, Savate_ suggests _that master Agravain goes to freshen up before he makes a fool of himself in front of Sir Galaad or sir Voldemort._ ” She pointed at the door to the bathroom, snapping her fingers twice. “ _Savate won’t allow her master to be less than presentable and tarnish the Knights’ reputation when she can prevent it._ ”  
  
The Knight shook his head with amusement, far too used to the elf’s bossy nature to be intimidated. Nonetheless, he obediently went to the ensuite bathroom where a bucket full of water was already waiting for him next to the bathtub. He rapidly got rid of his undergarments, letting a sigh of relief when he eventually removed his uncomfortably damp binder.  
  
When he got out, a fast wash later, the floor was clean and the fireplace had been lit. Savate had moved to his bed, seating in front of the neat pile she had made with his weapons, feet dangling over the border while she was holding on her lap the round sky blue pot Oscar used to store his International Floo. She hummed her approval as she watched him smoothen the sleeves of the loose blue-grey shirt he was wearing.  
  
“ _Master Agravain definitely looks better now._ ” She grinned from ear to ear, fingers tapping on the lip of the International Floo pot.  
  
“ _Don’t look so satisfied with yourself, Savate. That’s your job._ ”  
  
“ _And Savate excels at it._ ” The elf shot back to his teasing comment. “ _Master not only looks better but also feels better, isn’t he?_ ”  
  
The knight chuckled. His mood was indeed considerably better than earlier, the cold water having worked wonders on both his tense muscles and frayed nerves. Not stewing in his own sweat anymore helped too and, the fresh clothes Savate had chosen for him were far more comfortable than the ones he wore under his armour. Ideal for fighting and preventing the armour to chaff his skin, but otherwise far too tight for his tastes.  
  
He rapidly fastened his wand holster to his right thigh, hesitated a bit before deciding against tying his scabbards to his belt. No need to be a diplomat to know that parading his short sword around would give a friendly impression to one as paranoid as Voldemort. He still slipped one of his daggers into his left boot though. He might not want to look as casual as possible, there was no way he would go unarmed. He wasn’t that much of a fool.  
  
Once he had put on a thin dark blue sleeveless cloak, Agravain’s coat of arms displayed in white on its back, Savate finally gave him the Floo. He didn’t wait to throw a handful in the fire as he heard the elf pop away.  
  
“Kingdom of Avalon, Avalon, King’s Palace, Floo parlour,” he enunciated clearly, before putting his head in the fire.  
  
Despite the late hour, the room was’t empty. He spotted Yvain’s characteristic large top hat lying at the feet of a long chair, which was occupied by the Knight himself, lazily sprawled all over the furniture. He was speaking to the Commander, too quietly for Agravain to understand. Not that he cared.  
  
“Galaad!” Agravain called, completely unrepentant of interrupting. He doubted that the subject of their conversation was more important or urgent than what he had to report anyway.  
  
The man swooped on his feet with an aerial elegance his birth self completely lacked. The movement was accompanied with an airy sound as the bell attached to the tip of Galaad’s oversized pointed hat jingled. One look at the other’s serene expression and soft smile was enough for Agravain to realise that the Commander wasn’t surprised to see him at all.  
  
“ _You were expecting me,_ ” Agravain noted, eyes going to Yvain who was slowly straightening and stretching as if he had been napping. He didn’t seem very surprised either.  
  
“ _Calogrenant stopped by earlier, he sa—_ ,” Yvain began, the rest of his sentence stopped by a yawn.  
  
“ _He said you’d want to speak with me tonight,_ ” the Commander finished for him. “ _You were at the Triwizard Tournament with Dagonet. What happened?_ ”  
  
“ _Voldemort_ ,” Agravain answered. No need to beat around the brush. “ _He convoked Dagonet and all the ex… Well, not-ex-anymore-Death Eaters during the last task. He killed Cedric Diggory and, somehow, used Potter in a ritual to get his body back._ ” Galaad inclined his head to the side, apple green eyes half-lidded as he was humming. “ _Dagonet didn’t give much details but said it’d put the worse golems of Avalon to shame_ ,” he added in anticipation to the question he knew was coming. “ _Apparently, Voldemort is quite different from his past self… And not for the better, according to him._ ”  
  
There was a loud snort, attracting Agravain’s attention to Yvain. The Knight had moved to the Commander’s side, spinning his hat with one hand and playing with the Quidditch goggles around his neck with the other. Agravain rose a curious eyebrow at him. “ _The golem must be too ugly for Dagonet to fawn over._ ” The words made Agravain chuckle. “ _Not that’s surprising. I don’t think Voldemort could pay for the services of the best alchemists around without the help of his most wealthy followers._ ”  
  
“ _Indeed not. It’s not like he contacted Dagonet, Malfoy or any of the others._ ” Oscar wouldn’t have been so panicked otherwise. “ _Speaking of which, Dagonet’s fine. We’re at Nightshore Hall. We just came back from Hogwarts and he’s with Barty Cro–_ ”  
  
“ _Hogwarts? You just came back from_ Hogwarts?” Yvain’s voice went shrill, his eyes widened so much it was comical. “ _The hell is wrong with you?_ ”  
  
“ _You mean, ‘the hell is wrong with Dagonet?’_. _His idea not mine._ ” Agravain shrugged. “ _Voldemort told the Death Eaters about the most loyal of them being at Hogwarts. When Potter escaped, Dagonet realised the Death Eater’s cover was compromised. He wanted to save him before it was too late. Said it was to get in Voldemort’s good graces from the get-go. I don’t understand why he needed my help though, I didn’t exactly do much and there was no necessity to expose us to his master._ ”  
  
“ _I do,_ ” Galaad replied softly. “ _Understand, I mean._ ”  
  
“ _Of course you do._ ” Yvain said, rolling his eyes as he crossed his arms over his chest.  
  
The Commander made a lopsided smile, took a few steps back to look at Yvain, then Agravain. “ _Dagonet is using Agravain to introduce us to Voldemort. Even if Agravain didn’t do much, the Knights helped save his most loyal Death Eater, probably the one who is mainly responsible for his return. That means he’s indebted to you and I believe he’ll want this debt dealt with sooner than later as he doesn’t seem like the type who likes being indebted to anyone, moreover when you’re beyond his sphere of influence._ ”  
  
Agravain and Yvain exchanged a heavy look, the sooner knew the other felt uneasy as him. “ _That’s an incredible risk though._ ” Yvain passed a hand through his hair, grimacing. “ _Look, I’ve dealt with the guy in the past and if he’s anything like what I remember, he’s not exactly sane. I didn’t get out of that mess unscathed and I was pretty damn lucky to get out in the first place._ ”  
  
Agravain watched him with interest. It was easy to pinpoint that Yvain had lived in Britain because of his accent but there wasn’t much known about his birth identity, except for his adoption into the Marchombre family when he had arrived in Avalon and taking the title of Yvain about three years ago and that he taught Martial Magic at Beauxbâtons.  
  
“ _The guy is a paranoid narcissist. Unless we have something he wants, he won’t listen. And even if he listens, he will probably betray us at the first occasion._ ”  
  
That sounded pretty accurate according to Oscar’s descriptions of his master during the last years of the war. The conviction behind Yvain’s words didn’t escape his fellow Knight and Agravain wondered what kind of interactions he had had with the Dark Lord. Probably bad: Yvain wasn’t neither prejudiced, nor searching for a greater cause to serve or seeking power like Voldemort’s followers tended to do.  
  
“ _I agree. It’s not like he’s got anything of interest to us anyway, right?_ ” he added when Galaad didn’t answer. The Commander’s face was adorned with an affable expression but he had known him for too many years not to notice how his smile was a bit too crooked. “ _Seriously? The hell you want with Voldemort?_ ” It hit him then. “ _You want to study him_ ,” he muttered, shaking his head. “Of course, _you’d want to study him._ ”  
  
“ _I_ do _am extremely interested in the ritual he used to make himself a new body, yes. But that’s not why I think we should approach him. Do you remember Nina?_ ”  
  
“ _One of Nick’s_ Homunculi,” Yvain said with a grimace. “She _disappeared not long before his death. The old man was pretty sad about that._ ”  
  
Now that he mentioned it, Agravain could remember Althea talking about her disappearance months ago, maybe even a year. Not that it mattered: Homunculi couldn’t physically stay far away from their master, much less outlive them. When their masters died, so the Homunculi followed.  
  
“ _What about her?_ ”  
  
“ _It shouldn’t be possible but Léodagan spotted Nina in Knockturn Alley yesterday. She showed me her memory and I can tell it’s definitely her._ ” Agravain nodded slowly. For anyone else, he would have demanded confirmation but Galaad had spent most of his time with Flamel, thus with Nina. He probably had participated to Nina’s creation.  
  
“ _She isn’t the only Homunculus to have gone missing,_ ” the Commander continued. “ _But it seems like she was the first of a trend. Guildmaster al-Razi has been reporting about twenty missing from their households so far. If Nina is somehow still alive, then it’s possible that the others are too. If anything, I want to take Nina back without a fuss. You know what Britain’s position is on Homunculi._ ”  
  
“ _Of course._ ”  
  
The Ministry wouldn’t take kindly of learning that a Homunculus had somehow found its way there. Britain had decided to take a complete no-Homunculi stance. Creating or importing Homunculi was strictly forbidden on British soil, as were any published work pertaining to them. Even publications that only vaguely mentioned them were censured. The normal British wizard or witch wouldn’t have heard of them except in fiction while they had been around for nearly a decade.  
  
“ _Then you understand that Voldemort will have the means to obtain informations that the Knights there can’t, even Dagonet. There won’t be a better time approach him than now, when we can offer resources he doesn’t have yet in exchange for informations. The fact that he mustn’t know a lot about us plays in our favour too. For now, we have the advantage and we need to use it. I’m sure we can deal with whatever comes after._ ”  
  
No matter how much Agravain disagreed, he could easily follow Galaad’s reasoning. It wasn’t illogical either, just extremely risky. Gallica had adopted a neutral position last time Voldemort had been around, Agravain doubted the rest of the Council would be happy to learn of any affiliation between the Knight Commander and the Dark Lord. No, the Senator-Counsul could easily be swayed but the French President could definitely _not_.  
  
“ _Yeah, right,_ ” Agravain conceded with a grimace. “ _There’s still a problem though. I am to meet Voldemort tonight and you know I’m no diplomat._ ” Politics had always made him uneasy and he had learnt fast he was far more the soldiery type rather than the talking type.  
  
“ _I know._ ” The Commander grinned. Agravain looked at Yvain in interrogation but the other only shook his head. “ _Move._ ”  
  
“ _Sorry, what?_ ”  
  
“ _I mean, step away._   _Yvain and I are passing through._ ” Yvain didn’t try to hide his displeasure at the order. He swore quite loudly. Not that it disturbed the alchemist who just told him, “ _Wouldn’t be fair for us if it was just you and me when they are three of them, would it?_ ”  
  
“ _Technically, with Dagonet, that would make four of them and only three of them,_ ” Yvain replied snidely. “ _Unless you don’t count him as one of us._ ”  
  
“ _Did I say it was supposed to be fair to Voldemort? And, remember, Dagonet is supposed to be just Oscar Nott, one of Voldemort’s Death Eaters. Also, Yvain, you probably know better how to deal with Voldemort than the rest of us._ ”  
  
Agravain didn’t hear the rest because he stepped back, leaving enough space for his fellow Knights. He sighed before looking around, in case he hadn’t noticed Savate coming back. She was indeed there, perched on the border of his bed with a folded dark grey cloth between her hands. 

He didn’t know when she had arrived but she obviously had heard enough because she immediately told them that Voldemort was currently in the parlour, speaking with Oscar and Barty. “ _Should Savate go inform them of Sirs Galaad and Yvain’s presence and request to meet sir Voldemort?_ ” she added once Yvain stumbled gracelessly out of the fireplace.  
  
“ _Please do_ ,” Agravain said, knowing that she wouldn’t do it unless he was the one to give the order. No matter if Galaad was technically his superior, like any house-elf attached to a Knight, she served him and him only. She gave him his turban before popping away.  
  
“ _For the record_ , _I still think this is a dreadful idea. Don’t tell I didn’t warn you._ ” Yvain sounded just like a petulant child but Agravain could only agree.

 

*******

 

The glass he had been holding in his left hand slipped from grip.  
  
_Weak_ , Voldemort thought as he watched the cup shatter on the ground, the Wit-Sharpening Potion it had contained staining the rug. Not that he cared about the dish or the expensive bear skin, no, there wasn’t much he cared about in his father’s house. He was preoccupied by the faint tremor in his limbs though, which he had noticed as soon as his post-rebirth bliss had begun to fade but suspected had been there the whole time.  
  
Back in the graveyard, he had already felt something off with his magic. He had ignored it in favour of more pressing events at the moment, putting it on an annoying but temporary aftereffect of the Enkidu Ritual he had modified to suit his needs. He had prepared a selection of draughts in advance, in order to help ease the transfer of his soul from his last vessel to this new one and prevent any complications the Dark Lord had been able to foresee in the modified ritual. All of which he had ingested hours earlier, after his short meeting with his Death Eaters.  
  
It should have been enough time for his potions to begin working. They didn’t seem to have any effect so far though and hours after, not only the situation hadn’t gotten better but it had worsened. The few spells he had tried had been meek and his own mind was duller than he remembered it being. He was beginning to think that the successful Cruciatus Curse back in the graveyard was only because he had been running on pure elation and adrenaline.  
  
He gently rubbed his temples, trying to chase the headache that still wouldn’t disappear away.  
  
He couldn’t ignore the possibility that he might be too impatient. This body was the first acceptable human receptacle for his soul since the loss of his original one, more than a decade ago. One that wouldn’t crack under the weight of two different souls like Quirrel before Potter had gotten rid of him before Voldemort himself had to do it. One that would let him access his own magic and should, in all, be even better than his original body. He had made sure of that when adapting the ritual to his needs.  
  
Still, considering that Wormtail had done most of the practical work as the Dark Lord himself had been incapacitated in his temporary body and Barty was off to his own mission, there was a high probability for something to have gone wrong with the ritual. Wormtail's brewing abilities were as mediocre as the rest of him: not amount of watching over the rat’s shoulder would correct his incompetence.  
  
The sudden once-familiar tug of the link tying Voldemort to his followers took his attention away from his musings.   
  
That wasn’t Severus, the Dark Lord remarked caustically to himself, extremely aware that having the potioneer at his side right now would be a blessing. Also, that finding a potioneer as talented and, overall as useful as Severus, wasn’t easy. With his extension knowledge not only in potions, but also Dark magic, he would have been able to assign him on researches the Dark Lord wouldn’t be able to dedicate his whole attention to, now that he had an adequate body and lots of planning to do.  
  
_I’m coming shortly_ , he answered to the request before cutting the channel shut as soon as he had made sure that Oscar was indeed at his family estate.  
  
He was curious about the man’s reason for contacting him too. After tonight, he had thought his Death Eaters would rather shy away from any contact to gather themselves and wait from his orders before showing their faces to him. Oscar wasn’t much different from the rest of them. Unless… he had urgent informations to deliver. All in all, his servant’s calling was quite fortunate as Voldemort had already decided he needed to have a talk with his old housemate sooner rather later. Now that he had a body he could take care of by himself, he was certainly not remain in the house of his _father_ more than necessary. The Notts’ family estate would do perfectly for his current plans.  
  
“ _Master?_ ” Nagini asked, displeasure clear in her voice as he slowly took her out of his lap, where she had been napping.  
  
“ _I need to be away for awhile, Nagini._ ” He rose to his feet, putting her back into the armchair. She kept an open eye on him as she rearranged her position. Wormtail was nowhere in sight, probably scurried away at the first occasion to spend his time with his own kind. “ _Keep an eye on the house and the rat_ _for me._ ”  
  
“ _What about intruders? Can I eat them._ ”  
  
She sounded excited at the prospect but he had to disappoint her. Who knew, one of his runaway Death Eaters might find their way to the house while he was otherwise occupied. He wouldn’t allow them to die before facing his personal wrath. “ _You may incapacitate them_ _._ _D_ _on’t kill them_ _though_ _._ ”   
  
On these words, he Apparated away.  
  
Dust flew around when the Dark Lord appeared on the dirt road passing near the Notts’ house, just in front of the open gates of the estate. In the distance, Nightshore Hall stood tall and proud, a dark silhouette under the night sky, small flickers of light bright where the parlour was, at least, where the room had been last time Voldemort had set foot into the building.  
  
He decided to ignore the silhouette walking up the paved path leading to the main building for now, undoubtedly Oscar coming to greet him personally and let him in. Instead, Voldemort extended a hand in front of him, slowly bending forward until he could feel the pulsing magic of the ancient wards against the pad of his fingers. They were uncomfortably hot to the touch, not unbearable however. Not yet. He had no illusion about what would happen were he to step over the boundaries without being invited. As he examined the multi-layered barrier, searching for any weaknesses, the Dark Lord considered testing its strength. Would his current state prevent him from tearing it apart, layer by layer? Of course, he would probably not be unscathed but that would be an excellent way to try his power.  
  
“I’d be eternally grateful if you refrained from shredding apart the wards of my ancestral home, my Lord.” His servant’s voice cut through the night sharply and Voldemort turned to him.  
  
Oscar stopped just beyond the protection of the wards, his wand pointed to the ground. Without the mask, Voldemort could see the alluring face was exactly the same that had charmed many a witch. At first during their school years, where his position first as a favourite of Slughorn, then as a Head Boy had greatly helped Voldemort cement his absolute control of the Slytherin during his last year, when himself had taken over the position of Head Boy. Of course, Oscar’s pretty face and sweet words had been even more useful later, during balls and parties as he had had no difficulties to charm his way into the life of anyone Voldemort needed him to, whether for informations or a surreptitious disposal of the person.  
  
As soon as the Dark Lord met his eyes, Oscar bowed his head ever so lightly, barely more than a nod. His old housemate, one year his senior, had never done more than that outside of public meeting. It was one act Voldemort had always let him indulge in. It had never ceased to amuse him to see the way the other battled with his natural pride at having to _bow_ to another and his devotion to him. Even if the pure-blood was far too proper to display anything but a perfectly affable expression, Voldemort had known him long enough to recognise the tell-tale sign of his twitchy fingers.  
  
“Welcome to Nightshore Hall, my Lord. It’s an honour to receive you here,” he finished with a smile. As soon as the invitation was delivered, the heat of the wards against his skin disappeared and Voldemort stepped forward into the proper domain. “Allow me to tie you to the wards.”  
  
The Dark Lord didn’t grace him with a vocal answer. Not that Oscar seemed to expect one as he was already pointing his wand at him, closing his eyes. Instants later, purple ribbons erupted from the tip of his wand before tying themselves around Voldemort, then transformed into sparkles only to disappeared into thin air.  
  
“Your timing was quite on point, Oscar. I have a matter of importance to talk about with you,” he said as they began walking down the path.  
  
“What kind of matter?”  
  
“Housing accommodations. I’m currently staying at my father’s house and you know of my… affection for the man. Now that I have a body anew, I have no wishes to remain in this house longer than necessary.”  
  
“Of course,” Oscar replied after a small silence. Not that Voldemort had expected otherwise. “Although, with all due respect, my Lord, I won’t have the filthy rat dirty the halls of my home,” he continued, not hiding the disgust in his voice, much to the Dark Lord’s amusement.  
  
“This is acceptable. Wormtail will stay at the Riddle house with Nagini. I don’t intend to completely abandon the place as it’s an ideal location for our less public business.”  
  
“You’re going to go out in public,” Oscar said, immediately catching on the implications.  
  
With Potter out in the wild, Voldemort had no doubt that his rebirth would be all over the news soon. He couldn’t afford rushed actions yet. Not when he had to rebuild a decade of lost connections and resources and have a clear view of Britain’s political field. He had thought of staying at the Malfoys’ at first, but deciding against. It would be suspicious if the Malfoys were suddenly to give more social events than usual out of the blue.   
  
Oscar, on the other hand, with his renown love for giving balls and parties was in an ideal position for the Dark Lord to have a closer look at how the British society fared these days and begin building bridges from that. As a bonus, Oscar suffered much less scrutiny than the Malfoys and, generally, a better reputation amongst people that wouldn’t be attracted to Voldemort’s cause at first, but could be swayed with a bit of work.  
  
“As Marvin Thomas Mortimer, son of Tom Riddle and Loreen Mortimer, born and raised abroad. Travelling wizard who came to the birth country of his parents for the first time after their death. I came to you because I remembered my father’s stories of his teenage years, eager to discover the magical British society. You had the kindness of taking me in in memories of your old schoolmate and friend.”  
  
Oscar stared at him for a long time before he eventually spoke, “You will wear your old face then?” His eagerness made Voldemort laugh. Of course the only worry the Death Eater would have would be his face.  
  
“Some things never change it seems. You know I can’t exactly wear this face in public and hope for the discretion I need. As my own son.” He smiled coldly. “I can wear a face quite similar to my old. If Harry Potter can get away with it, there’s no reason I can’t.”   
  
After all, except for Dumbledore, the few people alive who remembered he had been Tom Riddle once where the ones either dedicated to him, or ones that wouldn’t be of any danger to him and probably even interested in Riddle’s son, like the old Slughorn.  
  
“Am I the only one to know?”  
  
“Only you for the time being. The less aware, the better.”  
  
Oscar stopped in front of the imposing entrance double doors, hands on the panels, humming slightly to himself. “You might want to inform Barty of your plan, my Lord.”  
  
Voldemort carefully concealed his surprise. Oscar couldn’t possibly had learnt of Barty being alive from him as they had no contacts until earlier and he had made sure of not revealing his name. It couldn’t be Wormtail either, as the coward couldn’t show his face anywhere and Oscar had never hidden his distaste of him nor did Wormtail have any reason to talk to him. It left only Barty himself then, although unlikely for the young man to take contact with Oscar when he had his mission and wasn’t as sentimental to risk compromising it in such a foolish manner.  
  
“Actually, he’s the reason I asked for your presence here tonight, my Lord.” Oscar turned to face him, he wetted his lips. “You can ask him directly,” he added as he pushed the doors open. “Right, Barty?”  
  
The young man was indeed there, standing on their left with his arms crossed over his chest, in the arched doorway leading to the parlour. He was seemingly unharmed though his gaze was unfocused and distant. Still, he did look in their direction when they entered.  
  
Barty immediately fell to his knees, head bowed. “My Lord! I’m so sorry. My carelessness got m—”  
  
“Raise your head and look at me,” he interrupted the other, unwilling to listen to his babble when it would be faster to get what he wanted directly from his mind.  
  
As always, Barty’s mind was pliant under his touch. He easily navigated through the fresh memories. From the foiled attempt to get rid of Potter—much to Voldemort’s glee as Potter was _his_ to deal with—to the forced revelations to Potter, Dumbledore, McGonagall and, the Dark Lord felt anger at seeing his face, Severus, who would pay dearly for not only refusing to answer his summon but also collaborating with the enemy.   
  
After was the post-Veritaserum haze and a swirl of Barty’s unfocused thoughts and hallucinations, Voldemort didn’t want to know why the younger man had been seeing a purple ladybug flying around, accompanied by the background track of his house-elf’s loud wails and McGonagall incessant pacing.  
  
Later, Barty had been too confused to keep track of the passing time, the sound of the door opening had attracted the wizard’s attention, thinking that he would finally be apprehended. He had watched both in awe and confusion McGonagall fall on the floor. Voldemort frowned, lingering on the memory, trying to better see what had happened but Barty couldn’t keep his focus long enough to be of any use.  
  
When he had finally gathered his wits, a young man, maybe in his late teens or early twenties was using a Stunner on the teacher while another one, older with the top of his head covered with a dark blue and violet bandana, had taken Barty’s house-elf, holding her body in a hand and using the other to choke her.

“ _The elf?_ ” The wizard said in French to the empty space in front of the door when the creature had passed out.  
  
“ _Coming with us_.” The words were soft-spoken but it was definitely Oscar’s voice.  
  
There were muffled sounds before his old housemate’s head and neck appeared in thin air as he put the cap of his cloak back. Only then he turned in Barty’s direction, looking genuinely surprised for an instant. He fast schooled his features in a large grin though, then crouched to be at Barty’s level, lips against his ear.  
  
“We’re here to get you out. Don’t be stupid and ruin it all for us.” Then, he got back to his feet, turning to the younger of the trio, the one with a finely engraved black hairband in his short blond hair. “Thanks for the help. Now, get back to your dormitory before anyone finds out you’re missing.”   
  
A student then, how surprising. Probably not his real face and Human Transfiguration was only taught for the N.EW.T. so the teenager was at least in sixth year and probably in Slytherin if Oscar had been trusting enough to get his help. Wasn’t his son around that age? That wouldn’t be surprising if he was him as Oscar had never lost his naive faith in the strength of his familial bonds. The youngest nodded before casting a Disillusionment Charm on himself, his silhouette shimmering slightly as he moved out of the room.  
  
After, Oscar swiftly Obliviated McGonagall and began chanting lowly. In the meantime, Barty watched the man with the bandana with fascination as he took position next to the door, eyes trained on the Foe-Glass and the shadows reflected in it. The Dark Lord himself examined him with curiosity, taking in the grey hair and light brown skin as well as the eyes with a shade of purple was screamed glamour.  
  
The battle armour he was wearing was made of a silvery leather, goblin-made if the goblin runes engraved in it were any indication. When he turned to peek at the corridor, Voldemort saw the golden double-headed eagle barred with green decorating the back of his purple cloak in a fashion that reminded him of a peculiar country. To confirm his suspicions, above the wand holster tied to his left thigh, two short sword scabbards were attached to his belt. The Dark Lord remembered well reading about Avalon and how it had kept traditional duel alive and more than just an obsolete sport only practised by a niche of nostalgic pure-blood.   
  
When he looked back at Oscar, his servant was finishing his incantation. Oscar pointed his wand successively at Barty, then the stranger and the elf, watching them shrinking with a satisfied smile. It was the Lilliputian Spell, a straightforward-named spell that fell under the large umbrella of Size Spells. If successful, it reduced its targets’ size to a Lilliputian’s six inches. Simple in name but requiring finesse in its execution as any slip could end up with the target not bigger than a speckle of dust. Voldemort wasn't surprised that Oscar could cast it, seemingly with ease as the older man had gathered an impressive knowledge of Cosmetic Charms and more generally, Human Transfiguration, in order to cater to his natural vanity.  
  
Next, the Death Eater had taken the miniaturised men and elf, put them on a shoulder before hiding himself under his invisibility cloak. Voldemort didn’t need to see the rest to know that Oscar had then lazily strolled out of Hogwarts to Apparate to safety.  
  
The Dark Lord had to admit, he failed to see how things could have been better. With Barty out of Dumbledore and the Ministry’s hands, even if the news of his rebirth was spread, they wouldn’t be able to learn of the technicalities of his rebirth and what Barty knew of his future plans. Dumbledore might even be in trouble if the Ministry learnt of his misuse of Veritaserum.  
  
Voldemort was smiling when he extracted himself from Barty’s mind, eyes falling on Oscar. “I found myself amazed at your display of creativity, Oscar,” he began slowly. “And also wondering why you never thought of putting it at work for my return.”  
  
Oscar’s artfully-crafted smile didn’t falter but Voldemort could see his fingers discreetly playing with the frills of his blouse’s cuffs. In a way, he had always respected the other’s uncanny ability to take anything thrown at him with a perpetual affable mask that made people think he was nothing more than the socialite househusband, which he definitely was, who appeared as an eccentric but inoffensive man. The Dark Lord had no problem believing it had largely contributed to how easily had been able to saved his hide after his temporary forced holidays.  
  
With Oscar’s help, he didn’t doubt that the whole ordeal with his rebirth would have been both swifter and not as botched. After all, as he had once again proved tonight, the man had many resources at the tip of his perfectly manicured fingers.  
  
“Enough. I’m not interested in hearing your excuses, Oscar,” Voldemort said, tapping his fingers against his wand when the other opened his mouth. “What I want to know however, is how you managed to get help from a Knight of the Round Table.”  
  
Obviously, Oscar was waiting for that because his expression exuded smugness, his eyes sparkled with mischief. “Have I ever mentioned my half-Avalonian grandnephew of a godson, whom I happened to be quite close with?”

 

* * *

**21st of June, 1992**

“Nothing good comes from empty stomachs,” Flamel said as a short witch sauntered into the room, floating plates and bottles charged with food following her like a litter of puppies. “I’m a firm believer that talks should always happen over a good sturdy meal.”

“ _J'peux pas tout mettre sur la table_ ,” the woman said with a bit of childish pout in her voice and head tilted on the side, reminding Harry of Lily when she was faking sullenness.  
  
His gaze lingered on the golden serpent entwined around a cross sewn onto the back of her bright orange short cape before it went back to Flamel when he answered, “ _Oh désolé, Nina, je m'en occupe de suite._ ”  
  
The old wizard smiled at her, a hand playing with the braided tip of his beard. A turn of his free wrist later, the notebooks and papers scattered on the table separating the wizards shuffled into a neat pile that went on the top of a book tower next to the alchemist’s armchair.  
  
Nina didn’t wait to begin setting the breakfast on the table, hummed to herself all the while. There were far too much for the three of them to eat and he wondered if the other residents of the house would join them later. Harry couldn’t dwell on these thoughts however, as Flamel was speaking again, “Let’s get you introduced to a rather traditional Avalonian breakfast, shall we.”  
  
He sounded so delighted and looked so much like a overjoyed kid it was a bit disturbing to see. The Auror found himself only able to nod as Flamel went on. First, he gestured to a basket full to the brim with bite-sized viennoiseries ranging from croissants to turnovers. “From Pain du Pétrin, best bakery around if you want my mind”. He then served himself a full glass of a clear light brown liquid with fine particles in the bottom. “Artisanal apple juice from the Couchant farm, made with their latest batch of Drap D’or. It’s one of our specialties, come on, taste it!”.  
  
He stopped to look at phoenix-shaped teapot, then carafe, then Harry in a speculative way, eyes sparkling with mischief. “I’d offer you some coffee but you sound British so here’s some tea for you.”  
  
Before he could say that he would indeed like coffee very much, a silvery cup filled with a black tea that smelt of citrus was put in front of him. Somehow, he knew that complaining would only amuse Flamel so he settled with watching the teacup decoration: a phoenix transforming into an egg that rolled for a bit before hatching a lively chicken that ran around before bursting into a phoenix, coming full circle.   
  
“And last but not least!” Flamel exulted, looking positively delighted, as if given the best treat ever. He pushed a plate with crêpes stacked in a high pile, their enticing smell making Harry eager to taste. “Freshly-made crêpes from Perrie, my wife. The staple of Avalonian breakfast.” He pointed at the different pots all over the table. “Sugar, salted butter caramel, whipped cream, jams. There’s everything one’d want on their crêpes. I even have Nutella and trust me, lad. It’s not that easy to find here. Now, don’t let me stop you, enjoy your meal.”  
  
Finally. Harry glanced over the whole meal, quite unsure of where to begin seeing the sheer volume of what was proposed.  
  
“ _Ah!_ ” Nina clapped her hands, making Harry look in her direction as she turned to face him, Homunculus red eyes on him.  
  
Years of war had engrained certain reflexes in the Auror: before his mind caught up, he had the thing at wandpoint. The toddler he was now holding against his chest with his left arm whined loudly, clearly stirred out of his sleep by the abrupt movement. Harry ignored him though, his attention focused on the creature, searching for any threatening sign to launch the spell on the tip of his tongue.  
  
It blinked at him stupidly, watching cross-eyed the tip of his wand with an open mouth. Harry scowled at her. He gritted his teeth. No wonder she had managed to make all the food float so easily.  
  
“ _Maître Flamel?_ ” Its eyes were bulging and eyebrows were frowned, mouth still hanging open. Harry had to give it to the thing, it managed to emulate surprise and confusion perfectly. He could even see a faint tremor in its shoulders.  
  
“ _Ne t'inquiète pas, Nina. Je me charge de tout._ ” The alchemist sent her a soft smile before turning to Harry, a folded crêpe in one hand. “Hold you wand. Nina’s not a danger to anyone here.”  
  
“Get it out of here before I curse it,” he growled, every muscle tense. Then, remembering he was currently enjoying Flamel’s hospitality, added, “Please?”  
  
Harry’s heart was beating far too fast and his fingers twitched nervously. The old wizard was nibbling on his crêpe, unblinking eyes not leaving him until he had finished his food and licked his some cream off his hand. Then, he turned to the creature, speaking as if it were a child.   
  
“ _Merci de ton aide. Pourquoi ne vas-tu donc pas voir si Perrie et Bohort ont besoin d'aide ?_ ”  
  
“Miss Perrie… On, um, on the table… Baby,” it spluttered, lips trembling before it shook its head making their short pigtails bounce. “Miss Perrie prepared stuff for the baby!” it squealed. “Sorry!” it added with a low bow, then backed away as fast as it could without letting the Auror out of its sight.  
  
_Good_ , Harry thought as he nervously watched it depart, only pocketing his wand when he was sure it wouldn’t be back. Then he eventually scanned the table, spotting the mushroom—shaped turquoise and peach—coloured baby bottle standing next to teapot. A look at the toddler told him it wasn’t time yet, as the little one was asleep again, face pressed against Harry’s breast.  
  
“Let me guess, bad experiences with Homunculi.” Flamel served himself a cup of coffee without looking at him. “You know, you shouldn’t hate them. They may look and behave like humans but they aren’t _that_ human. Would you fault a wand for how its wizard uses it? It’s the same here. If anything, hate the master.”  
  
Flashes of red and white came to him, the blood everywhere on Althea’s pale skin and snow-coloured hair. Harry pinched his lips, fisting his free hand to stop it from spasming, eyes fixed on the light reflected in his tea. The alchemist had only been the latest victim, another one in what seemed like an endless string. He wondered how Ea and Hermione were doing now, if… how many had died these last hours. Which friend? Which family member? Who—  
  
“You certainly look like one who has seen much.” Flamel’s voice cut his train of thoughts and Harry felt relieved at hearing him. Dwelling on these when he had the tendency to wallow in self-pity—something he absolutely loathed about himself—wouldn’t help him. It’s not like he could just transport himself back to the future.  
  
“You have no idea,” he eventually sighed, slowly rubbing his forehead. He had once thought, standing in the ruins of the Great Hall, that the Second Wizarding War would be the worst experience of his life. How young and naive had he been then.  
  
“By the way,” Flamel began, his neutral expression turning into a pout as he was observing Harry while absently splattering jam on a crêpe, making a mess of it.  “I already introduced myself but you still haven’t told me your name. Not very polite of you. So, tell me who you are.”   
  
The alchemist’s bluntness surprised Harry. From someone whose aura reminded him of Dumbledore, he hadn’t expected that. Plus, the old and powerful wizards he had met had rarely been that straightforward. The youngest wondered what to answer. It didn’t seem like a good idea to reveal his real name. Though Flamel had mentioned them being in Avalon earlier, Harry still didn’t know what year it was. For all he knew, he could already have been born. He strongly doubted it would do well for people to learn there were two Harry Potter around.  
  
What should he do then?  
  
“What is it, lad? That’s a long time to answer such a simple question.” Flamel’s face was barred with an impish grin and there was a knowing glint in his eyes.  
  
Harry chose to look away, reaching for a croissant and carefully munched on it, even though he was aware that the alchemist wouldn’t be dupe. In the corner of his eyes, he saw Flamel bend forward, putting his elbows on his knees. He scowled.  
  
“You know, lad. At my age, I like to consider I’ve done a bit of time-travelling. I just walked the very long road instead of using Time Floo to skip back. I know a time-traveller when I meet one.” He waggled his eyebrow in a way so ridiculous Harry couldn’t help the chuckle. “That and, well, look at you. Do you even know what year you are in? No way you’d blend in with this stuff!”  
  
He hadn’t thought of that. Of course the fashion back home would be very different from whatever year it was, even more when he wasn’t in Britain. The leather battle amour he had been wearing had only been recently reintroduced in the Auror uniform, when it had been absent for centuries before that. The Auror insignia glowing gold on his dark breastplate couldn’t be missed. Nor could the large one sewn into the back of his cloak, the bright red colour indicating his rank as the Head of the Department.  
  
“Today’s the 21 st of June, 1992. Now that’s out of the way, just give me your name. I promise I won’t tell anyone else.” Harry stared at the wizard in disbelief as the other winked at him, waving his spoon around as he added, “Well, maybe Perrie but the damn woman could wring secrets out of anybody. C’mon, lad, I gave you mine. It’s only fair you give me yours.”  
  
“I can’t believe you really are Nicolas Flamel.” Harry rolled his eyes at the pouty old man. This wasn’t exactly what he had ever imagined the alchemist to be. “Shouldn’t you be…”  
  
“Acting more like my age?” Flamel flat out laughed, as if Harry had made the best joke ever. “Unless you know many 662 years old, how would you know how one’s my age should act?” He emptied his glass of apple juice in one go before putting his spoon away and folding his crêpe. “Indulge an old man his fun, will you? You can’t survive as long as Perrie and me did without taking a bit of fun everywhere you can. How boring that would be! I’d probably kill myself if my life was boring.”  
  
Flamel, Harry decided, was an horrible man. He also was completely out of his mind, Harry realised. No wonder he had gotten along so well with Dumbledore. But then, the Auror didn’t think he could find a better help for now. The man might be completely barmy but he was still, probably, the most gifted alchemist currently alive. If anyone could help Harry, that would be Nicolas Flamel. For Merlin’s sake, he had already found out Harry was from the future.  
  
“I’m Harry Potter,” Harry eventually said.  
  
Flamel glowed at his admission, his eyes sparkling and a large grin spreading from one ear to another. “I know, I know. I just wanted to hear you say it.”  
  
“Really?” he replied surly. Harry wasn’t even surprised at that point, mainly frustrated but it was apparent that the elder like to toy with him. He sighed, resigned to having to deal with the mad wizard’s peculiar quirks.   
  
“You know about Albus’ little secret society during the war against Voldemort, right?” Harry nodded. “Never been an official member but I helped Albus when I could and seen your parents around. I’m sure you’re quite familiar with the ‘you look just like your father but with your mother’s eyes’ speech.”  
  
“I don’t quite believe you.”  
  
At fifty-two, over than twice his father’s age when he had died, Harry knew the passing years had left traces that had greatly reduced his physical similarity to James Potter. The deep wrinkles at the corner of his eyes, the lines of his forehead and premature silver strands in his head, all marks of time that his father had never experienced. Without mentioning the thick beard half-hiding the scar running along his right cheek. He hadn’t been compared to his father in years.  
  
“Well, you’d pass more for your father’s father… Or maybe an uncle. The kinship is still definitely there though. But,” Flamel stopped himself, raising a hand to tap his forehead. “This was a big clue. Mind you, it’s much much fainter than in the pictures I’ve seen of you. The kiddie you, I mean, but the scar’s still there if you pay attention.” He sipped some coffee while Harry eyed the pile of crêpes, wondering what to eat them with. “With the introductions out of the way, let’s just get to the heart of the matter. Why did you come back in time? Is it about Voldemort?”  
  
Harry shook his head. “No. I… I already defeated him when I was a teenager. He’s not the reason why I was sent back.”   
  
“Is it war?”  
  
This time, Harry nodded, passing a hand over his face. “Not like the Voldemort Wars and from what I've heard, even worse than Grindelwald’s.”  
  
The Auror absently touched the blazon of the Wizarding World Coalition etched in purple on his left vambrace, the colour a sign of his status as Britain’s representative in the organisation. Of course, he would be the one to be sent back. He’d always been their symbol of hope and triumph after all.  
  
He fisted his free hand around a chunk of his cloak, the knuckles whitening as he took a deep inspiration. “When Avalon fell then later, France, Althea and Ea lead the refugees to Britain.” The Coalition had been formed not long after. With Althea being Gallica’s representative, both had had to work together quite a bit. Years passing by had only transformed their work relationship into friendship. Fighting alongside had helped a lot. Somehow, he had thought they’d be that way until the end of the war. “Then, Althea died…”  
  
Splatters of blood splashed his face, a red eye with its black sclera fixated on him, withered dark lips moving slowly, revealing yellowish teeth and spitting out foreign words Harry hadn't understood, though he had recognised the hate they were charged with. He blinked, passed a hand over his face to chase the memory away. Then, he took a deep breath to calm his mind. When he looked back at Flamel, the alchemist was nipping at a turnover, his face unreadable.  
  
“Ea's the one who send me back,” he continued, choosing not to mention Hermione’s implication in the whole thing. It wasn’t necessary for Flamel to know about one of his best friends and he would certainly not bring her up if not necessary. 

There was wiggling on his lap, followed by some gurgling. Baby Ea was now fully awake and waving his chubby hands at him. Harry smiled at him, then sit the toddler on his lap and got him the mushroom bottle, which the boy immediately took to his mouth and sucked at loudly.  
  
“He used his Graal-powers.” Although Flamel took a hold of himself fast, Harry hadn’t miss neither the older wizard’s sharp intake of air at the word “Graal”, nor the way his hand hovered a little too long over the basket of pastries before it dove in. He didn’t comment though, not yet. “He told me, ‘The exact point in space and time where I was born. I can’t go farther so I’m sending you there’.  Somehow, I ended up in the middle of… Whatever you were doing, with baby Ea here, right next to me.”  
  
The alchemist’s uncharacteristic silence made Harry look up. He was watching the toddler, for the first time since they had begun speaking, Harry realised. His attention was unwavering and gaze unblinking, eyebrows slightly frowned as if he was examining a fascinating experience. Baby Ea didn’t stop his meal, though he returned the stare as if he could understand what was going on. The Auror wouldn’t be surprised if that was the case. Ea had always had the uncanny ability to know and understand things he shouldn’t have been able to, one of the perks of being a Graal, Harry believed.  
  
“Let me guess, Ea is short for either Éaque or Althea?”  
  
“His full name is Éaque Nicolas Calice,” Harry answered, nodding absently to himself. The thought had never crossed his mind before but the middle name was probably a homage to Flamel as the Auror knew the older alchemist had been Althea’s master. Then, who was Éaque ref— “Wait.” Harry squinted in suspicion at Flamel. “Shouldn’t you already know his name? I mean, he doesn’t exactly look like he’s just born.”  
  
The baby looked couldn’t be younger than twelve months with his tooth and ability to pick up and hold stuff, just like his own children at that age. Moreover, Ea was Althea’s son, and Harry _knew_ this was the right baby, there was no way he wouldn’t have a name yet. There was something fishy there. What the hell was going on? He frowned. Was there something obvious he was missing? Harry wasn't the brightest wizard alone but he doubted that even Hermione would have noticed anything with only the few hours he had spent in the past so far. Still, there was a churning sensation in his belly and he didn't like the feeling at all.  
  
Flamel didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he raised a staff of twenty-or-so inches that seemed to be carved in peridot, the top of which was a golden cross hugged by a golden snake, its long tail spiralling down the length of the staff. The alchemist must have noticed his stare because he smiled at him, patting the object with obvious affection. 

“This is a sceptre. Rather dashing isn’t it? When I was a wee lad, sceptres were all the rage. That is, until Merlin came with his fancy short wand, not that he used it much, that old sly fox. Then, the fashion shifted to wands. I never could throw my old friend away though. Anyway,” he continued, lifting his free hand in the air. “ _Accio INRI picture_.”  
  
A periwinkle shoebox placed under a shelve trembled. The top was lifted from the inside to let a small piece of paper come straight into Flamel’s extended hand. “See anyone familiar?” he asked when he gave Harry the picture.  
  
There was a dozen of persons standing in front a large black pillar, the majority of them smiling and waving happily at the camera. All of them of diverse gender, age and ethnicity. Of the whole lot, only two captured Harry’s attention. The first was an Althea younger than Harry had ever known him, probably in his early twenties, with his eyes a bright aquamarine instead of gold and an ernest face free of the heavy burn scars Harry was used to. The second was standing directly behind Althea, arms around his waist and chin on the white-haired wizard’s shoulder. Except for the eyes—a clear greenish grey—and the long hair attached in a ponytail, the man was a carbon copy of Ea, from the soft features down to the mischievous smile whenever the Graal was about to get his way.  
  
“Althea, of course,” Harry replied. He tapped Ea's clone with an index. “And this guy. Looks like he could be Ea’s twin… Or his father?” he added thinking of how genetics could have gifted Ea the same way they had seen fit to gift Harry with a similar appearance to James Potter. “Who is this?”  
  
“I guess you’re not that far when you say ‘father’.” Flamel smiled but it wasn’t any of the grins he had adorned earlier. The corners of his mouth were downcast, slightly trembling and his eyes were closed. Suddenly as if the alchemist’s serious demeanour had dispelled an illusion, Harry noticed the large dark circles under his eyes, bluish and puffy and how deep the wrinkles on his face were. He looked ancient, almost frail.  
  
“That would be Isidore Éaque Aubétoile, Althea’s husband,” Flamel said, his voice raspier than before. “If as you say, and I believe you, young Ea here is my apprentice’s son, then there’s no doubt that the wee lad is named after Isi.”  
  
Althea had never mentioned a spouse, not that Harry had asked. He had just assumed Ea's mother had died in the beginning of the war. But then, it was still over three decades before the beginning of the war and Flamel wouldn't look so broken when talking about...  Oh. Flamel was grieving for the man. The death was probably fresh.  
  
“I'm sorry for your loss.” The words stumbled out of his mouth before he could even think. He couldn't count how many times he had had to utter them, how sad it was that it had became an automatism.

Flamel nodded his acknowledgement but kept silent, eyes fixated on the picture in the Auror's hand. “You'd think losing someone get better with time but,” Flamel began, the hand around his sceptre trembling. “Truth is, it never gets better. Even if I know I'll outlive anyone I'm close to, except Perrie, it still hurts every single time.”  
  
Harry didn't know what to answer to that so he didn't. Instead, he reached for his cup to sip some tea, frowning slightly. “How relevant it is to us that Ea is named after Althea's husband? It's not exactly unusual for people to name their children after relatives.”  
  
“Because, Harry. I can call you Harry, right?” The Auror nodded. He had the feeling that Flamel would do so whether he wanted it or not anyway. “I had suspicions earlier but you only confirmed them. Think carefully of who Ea looks like, what he said to you and where he sent you.”  
  
Flamel had been floating an unresponsive Althea behind him in a protective bubble, while Harry had taken care of baby Ea and the crying dark-haired child who had been with Flamel. They had been in the attic of a large inn, every inch of it covered in an amber-like substance that had even trapped everything within the building. Everything included the people, frozen in the middle of what they had been doing, probably caught unaware.  
  
Still, he couldn't grasp what Flamel was referring to. Harry took a croissant from the pastry basket, frowning all the while. “I don’t understand.”  
  
On his lap, baby Ea burped loudly. Flamel grimaced. An ugly grimace that made him looked like a wrinkled old parchment. “Harry. Do you even know how Graals are created?

With her common thirst of knowledge, Hermione had been fascinated with Ea and probably knew more than most people about Graals. It hadn't mattered to Ron and Harry where the blond-haired man had come from though, as he fought by their side as hard as anyone else. “Some kind of alchemical ritual?”  
  
The alchemist audibly sighed before taking a pastry. “One of the required ingredient to make a Graal is a sacrifice. That's your link between Ea and Isi, whom, by the way, left quite a trace.”  
  
It hit him then. The foul stink of burnt flesh and the smoky rosy slime scattered everywhere _but_ the centre of the room, where he had arrived. _In the heart of whatever had exploded_ , he had thought at the moment.  
  
“Merlin’s bloody balls,” Harry muttered, blanching as he finally realised what happened and what exactly Ea had meant by “when I was born”.  
  
He carefully put the croissant he had been about to bite in down on the table, his stomach now twisting in disgust. He clasped a hand over his mouth, taking deep breath to fight the nausea. His fingers were trembling against his lips. His eyes went to baby Ea, happily nibbling on Harry’s right vambrace, then back to Flamel whose gaze were on the toddler, staring as if he suddenly was the most fascinating thing ever.  
  
Who the actual fuck did that kind of thing? His eyes went to the picture, where the spouses were now watching each others with matching grins, Althea’s hands clasped over his lover’s. It was so obvious they loved each other. Why the fuck would they do such a thing? He had known Althea for six years, let him into his home for that same amount of time and while the alchemist was certainly no angel—nobody ever was in a war—Harry refused to believe he was the kind of monster who would sacrifice a loved one for the pursuit of magical science. This was not his friend. He gritted his teeth. This could—  
  
“I don’t think you will find much comfort in that,” Flamel said, even voice cutting right through Harry’s train of thoughts. “But the creation of your Graal. It was very much accidental and Althea himself doesn’t know about it yet.” He tugged at the tip of his braided beard. “That being said, the experiment they were conducting was dangerous. I can assure you that Isi was very aware that losing his life was a possibility. It’s a risk he was _willing_ to take, obviously.”  
  
“Obviously? What the fuck do you mean by ‘obviously’?”  
  
Harry’s voice was shriller than he had expected, full of indignation and shock. The bloody hell? Harry shook his head, fisted his hands to stop the trembling. This was so terribly wrong. For Merlin’s sake, Flamel, that slimy bastard, didn’t even had the look fazed! What bloody kind of experiment required one to risk their bloody life like that and what bloody kind of person was willing to take that kind bloody of risk for a bloody experiment? This was so fucked-up!  
  
“Ea wouldn’t have been able to become a Graal if Isi hadn’t been willing to risk his life.” Flamel finally detached his eyes from the Ea. He rubbed the back of his neck. “Harry, look, Isi isn't the biological father of the baby you're holding. It shouldn't even be possible for them to be physically carbon-copy of each other in the first place. I believe that, when the original ritual went awry, the baby absorbed Isi’s soul, which in turn will shape its host body in its image. Even though they probably have… will have different personalities, I suspect they are many common traits between the two.”  
  
It should have been reassuring that the death wasn’t intentional but horror dawned on the Auror. Flamel’s words hit far too close to home for his comfort. Voldemort either hadn’t be quite intent of Harry becoming one of his Horcruxes. “Why does it sound suspiciously like some kind of alchemical version of a living Horcrux?”  
  
He had no doubt the other had picked up on his bitterness because the bastard chuckled, raising his cup to his lips. “Living Horcrux?” He took a noisy slurp of coffee. “Why, Harry, you sound like you speak from experience.” When he put it down, his face adorned a large smug grin. “You know, Albus did always wonder about that cursed scar of yours. That would certainly be an answer. Of course, highly improbable but, life can sometimes be very surprising, don’t you agree?”  
  
Harry glowered at the alchemist. It was as if like Flamel could read him perfectly. If he hadn’t learnt to develop a sensibility to Legilimency whenever it was used on him, thanks to Voldemort and Snape, and some modicum of Occlumency over the years, he would have accused the old wizard of using it on him. “You certainly looks like you know a lot about Horcruxes, Flamel.”  
  
“Oh, just Nicolas or Nick please.” He took a full spoon of cream. “Is it surprising that I know about Horcruxes? You know how old I'm. There’s plenty of knowledge now conveniently forgotten that I still remember. Just like sceptres, Horcruxes and Graals have both been fancy in their own times. Fortunately, these peculiar fashion died pretty fast. I know how similar they must to you but I assure you that they are extremely different. If only because one requires murder while the other requires a sacrifice.” When Harry opened his mouth to comment how bullshit that was, because sacrifying someone was still a form of murder, Flamel raised his spoon while making shushing sound. “I won’t tell you more myself because I believe it’s not a knowledge that should be widespread.” He readjusted his glasses, watching Harry with a curious expression.” But! I won’t stop you from researching either. After you do, then come back and we’ll speak about that. We have more pressing issues to discuss before though.” He pushed a turnover to Harry. “And, Harry, please eat. After this night, you need it as much as me.”  
  
“I’m not hungry.” Not after what had just been revealed to him. He found himself already missing the relative simplicity of his life back home. It hadn’t been so great in recent years, but it had never felt as complicated as he suspected the past would be. It reminded Harry of that year spent hunting for the Horcruxes: so much to do and only faint clues. “What are these more pressing issues?”  
  
“What to do with you, of course. We can’t exactly let you stroll around under the name Harry Potter when your wee self is having his own adventures in Hogwarts.” He winked knowingly at him. “And Albus told me all about them. Thanks for the Stone by the way.”  
  
That was an excellent question. Harry couldn’t exactly go around using his real identity and revealing he was from the future. He didn’t need Hermione to know how incredibly stupid that would be. He didn’t intend to get anywhere near people he had been familiar with or interact with himself, not when it wasn’t the reason he was back. Voldemort’s future return was not his problem to deal with this time. His own task was more important in the long run; if he had been sent to Avalon, then he was exactly where he needed to be.  
  
He passed a hand through his hair, slightly frowning at the fact he couldn’t find a single idea of how to proceed. Flamel was observing him from over a cup, his mouth hidden but Harry had the distinct impression he was smiling. “Why don’t you just tell me what’s on your mind?” He scowled the old wizard.  
  
“Now that you mention it, Harry, I’ve got a brilliant idea. One that'd allow you to stay close to Althea and Ea, but also give you free access to many resources in Avalon you’d otherwise be barred from.”  
  
Harry squinted at the elder. He could swear his eyes were twinkling. “So charitable of you, _Nick_. What’s in for you?”  
  
“I’m sure a hero such as you would make a marvellous Knight in shining armour. You see, Harry, Isi’s death means there’s a free seat on the Round Table. I need that seat filled as soon as possible. It’s very convenient that you’re here when most of my Squire are too young or inexperienced for the job. I won’t hide that it’d allow me to keep a eye on you too.”  
  
Harry remembered the stories told by the refugees about the Round Table, the Knights sworn to protect and guide Avalon, which they had done until their defeat had cemented the Fall of Avalon. One of the more honourable work an Avalonian could hope for according to them. Being proposed a seat by Flamel was… Oh. _Oh_.  
  
“You’re the Knight Commander, aren’t you, Nick?”  
  
“So perspicacious of you to notice, Harry. I stand in complete awe of your observational skills,” the bastard drawled, making Harry flush both with embarrassment and annoyance. On his lap, baby Ea giggled. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Translations:_
> 
>  
> 
>  _Carpe noctem._  
>  Seize the night.
> 
>  _“J'peux pas tout mettre sur la table”_  
>  “I can't put all [the food] on the table”
> 
>  _“Oh désolé, Nina, je m'en occupe de suite.”_  
>  “Oh sorry, Nina. I’m taking care of that right now.”
> 
>  _“Ne t'inquiète pas, Nina. Je me charge de tout.”_  
>  “Don't worry, Nina. I'm taking care of that.”
> 
>  _“Merci de ton aide. Pourquoi ne vas-tu donc pas voir si Perrie et Bohort ont besoin d'aide ?”_  
>  “Thanks for your help. Why don't you go see if Perrie and Bohort need help?”
> 
> * * *
> 
> **CODEX**
> 
>  
> 
>  **Gallica — the Council** — The Covenant of the Gauls designed the Council as Gallica's highest office. It's composed of three person, who each inherited the post as a part of their job. Amongst the Council, two are the head of the respective government, the Knight Commander and the French President. The last member is the Senator-Consul, representing the Senate, which is shared by Avalon and France.
> 
>  **Graal** — An alchemical construct whose function is to make wishes come true. Their construction require human sacrifice to be successfully completed.
> 
> * * *
> 
>  **Notes:** Lapsit was my last year's NaNoWrimo... except that I threw more than 40,000 words away because I wasn't satisfied with it. With this chapter, it was mostly the same. The already written parts didn't sit well with me so I had to purge most of chapter away and it took me forever to rewrite because I was never quite satisfied with the many many tries hence the months it took me to finish it.
> 
> On another note, I'm using this year's NaNo to continue writing Lapsit so with a bit of hope, it'll get better than last year's and I will have taken enough advance to publish more often once December comes.
> 
> Anyway, I hope you liked the chapter :)


	5. IV - Alter ego.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Where Severus Snape very much wants to drink alcohol not tea, while Voldemort enjoys himself. Where Harry Potter learns that being a Parselmouth has more uses than just talking to snakes. Where Six makes do with what she has, that is, not much, especially not memories._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! I'm not dead, although I've got much less time on my hands than before because I've decided to go back to my studies last September.
> 
> The chapter took me forever before I eventually came to something I was satisfied with, not that I haven't written for Lapsit because, I've written a lot for it, since I used it for my NaNo 2017, just not things that I can use in the story proper (or passages that come later). So, no Raf pov for this chapter but two new other povs I hope you'll enjoy.

* * *

**IV.**  
_Alter ego._

* * *

**June 25, 1995**  
  
The tingle still wouldn’t disappear. The potioneer stopped himself from reaching out to soothe the sensation, even though it was merely a small annoyance compared to what it had been earlier, or what was coming for him. Even before Potter and Crouch’s revelations, the sudden flaring burn of the Dark Mark had been a clear sign that Severus would have to resume his old position before the end of the night.  
  
If he was _almost_ certain he could convince the Dark Lord of the benefits of his prolonged existence, the Potions master was  also sure that the more he made his old master wait, the heavier his punishment would be. Creativity was certainly not a trait the Dark Lord lacked and Severus would rather not be subjected to it more than necessary. He had to get out of here as soon as he could.   
  
Albus glanced briefly at him from the other side of Potter’s bed. Severus ignored him in favour of answering Fudge’s idiotic assumptions, “Are you saying, Minister Fudge, that the Headmaster, McGonagall, Potter and I somehow all suffered a common hallucination?” Much to his amusement, Fudge’s face went several shades of red darker. “Furthermore,” he continued, not without a gleeful malice. “Are you under the impression that Moody managed to both lock himself into his own trunk and assure his classes at the same time for the past 9 months? That would be quite a feat indeed.”  
  
“I understand that you require proof, Cornelius, and I’m very willing to provide you with memories of the events that transpired with Barty Crouch Jr tonight,” the headmaster intervened before Severus could add anything, his voice soft and cajoling as he peered at the minister over his glasses. “I’m certain that the other witnesses won’t object to have their memories extracted and reviewed. I also have no doubts that Moody will provide more informations when he will be in a better condition.”  
  
Although his face lacked any enthusiasm, the minister nodded without a protest. A victory at least, Severus told himself: so far, the portly little man had only fervently denied any possibilities of the Dark Lord being back, even when he had revealed the mark on his arm, blacker than it had been for more than a decade.  
  
For once, Potter helped him, giving him the opportunity he had been waiting for when his eyes fluttered open.  
  
“Potter is waking up,” he immediately informed them, taking a step back. He looked at Albus as he continued, “After everything that happened tonight, it isn’t a good idea to crowd him. I believe that minister Fudge still has business with the boy so I’ll be taking my leave, headmaster.” The old wizard nodded in understanding. “You can expect a vial of my memories on your desk first thing in the morning. Now, gentlemen, if you excuse me.”  
  
On these words, he marched out of the hospital wing, his mind in turmoil and dread pooling in his stomach the closer he was to his quarters. This, that whole situation was exactly what he had dreaded, even he had known it was likely to happen since that first year Potter and his cursed existence had stepped inside the castle.  
  
Cunningham was holding a book in a hand and playing with his pet adder with the other when Severus eventually arrived at his quarters.   
  
“What a terrible affair tonight was,” the portrait told him as he pivoted to let him pass, small brown eyes following his movements. Severus didn’t need to see his mouth to know it was twisted in a cruel smile. “And it is only the beginning for you, rumours say. Good luck in your endeavours, Severus. I certainly hope to see you another day,” he added when he closed the passage behind him, not a drop of sincerity in his tone.  
  
Severus ignored the portrait’s hisses, passed a hand over his face with a longing glance at his cabinet. He was greatly tempted to temper his dread with a glass of scotch however, he needed his sharpness of mind and all of his wit to go through the night.

The potioneer took a deep inspiration before rolling his left sleeve up, then pointed his wand at the Dark Mark.

* * *

**June 21, 1992  
  
** As he followed his young guide through the streets of colourful medieval houses and cobblestone road that reminded him of Diagon Alley. Harry thought of how happy his children were whenever they had been there _before_ , the spring in Jammie’s steps, Al’s quiet awe and the stars in Lils’ eyes. How joyful they had been to have their dad showing them around.  
  
Avalon was a whole new world for him and the Auror couldn’t help being reminded of his own first experience with Diagon Alley, how hard it had hit that being a wizard wasn’t a joke, that magic was real. Except that he was an adult this time and his current guide a child who looked like a first or second year.  
  
Harry had to flatten himself against the wall to avoid a small horde of running children, laughing and screaming at each others without a care in the world, in a way that he hadn’t got to see in what seemed like forever.  
  
Unlike home, he told himself, watching the busy crowd circulating in the street they had just emerged in, everyone was lively and enjoying their present, no tension of a danger that may or may not happen at a moment’s notice. He took a sharp breath. _This_ was the reason he had been sent back. This was what he had to protect, make sure he changed the timeline to stop the war from, little by little, stealing everything they had ever cared about.  
  
“So, Calypso,” Harry began. Speaking would hopefully distract him from his musings before they took a darker turn. “Where is Nick sending us? Should I be afraid?”  
  
Calypso hummed, right hand coming up to awkwardly pat his own hair before he shook he sighed, as if he had just remembered the cumbersome bandages wrapped around the appendage up to the middle of his forearm. The child had been the fifth person present at his arrival, mostly spared because Flamel had had the reflex of grabbing him and shielding him from most of the damage.  
  
“To Aunt Callirhoé. You shouldn’t worry too much…” Calypso scrunched his nose before adding, “Probably. I don’t think she’s scary but she’s my aunt, she likes me and I like her so there’s that.”  
  
“That really fills me with confidence,” Harry answered on a light tone.   
  
He had never seen Calypso in the future, nor heard of him from Althea himself. Still, Ea had told him about his _late_ brother once or twice. He had never actually said his name but Harry could see the similarities here and there, in the upturned pointy nose and almond-shaped eyes and the casually elegant way Ea as an adult would carry himself, which he was surprised that Calypso, not even a proper teenager yet, already managed to do. It had seemed pointless to ask who he was, especially since he doubted any random children would have been present. Which brought a whole new bunch of questions that Harry wasn’t really sure he wanted the answers to.

* * *

**June 25, 1995  
  
** Nott was seating in one of his Floo room’s bergères, facing the fireplace Severus stepped out of. The older man uncrossed his feet, clear eyes not leaving his face as he slowly rose from his seat.  
  
“Nott.” He nodded at him. “Where is the Dark Lord?” Severus hoped that being straightforward would preserve him from the other’s quirkiness. No such luck, he realised when he caught the impish look on Nott’s face.  
  
“So eager.” He chuckled, coming far too close to the potioneer’s comfort, only stopping when they were separated by less than an arm’s length. “Yet so slow to come. I wonder what took you so long.”  
  
“It’s of no concern to you, Nott,” Severus responded curtly, stepping on the side. “Now, stop wasting my time and show me to Him.”  
  
“Still awfully bossy I see.” Severus wished he could wipe the smirk off Nott’s face. “I hope you remember how to rein in that tongue of yours before our Lord takes it as one of his trophies. He seems quite, ah, stable so far. Even with Potter’s escape but maybe you’ll be the one to push him over the edge. Who knows?” He laughed coldly. “In any case, I’m looking forward to see what will happen. Come on then, let us not waste more time. Our Lord will be busy tonight.”  
  
The potioneer scowled at the pure-blood’s gall to imply that _Severus_ was the one wasting time. However, he didn’t bother talking back: he knew Nott enough that it would only amuse him further. Fortunately, the other only made a gesture to follow after him.  
  
“You know,” he began as they passed under the large arch leading to the entrance hall. “I’ve been told to practice my grovelling skills earlier. I feel like I should pass the advice to you, Severus. You need it far more than I do. You did make Him wait quite a bit after all and you know about His patience.”  
  
As if he could ever forget about that. The pain of the Cruciatus Curse wasn’t the kind one could forget once subjected to it. It wasn’t either the kind of pain one could get used to.  
  
Nott stopped in front of heavy double doors, hands on the silver doorknobs, glistening under the moonlight. “Don’t worry too much, Severus. Even with that disastrous timing of yours, we all know how valuable you always were to the Dark Lord.” Before Severus could react, the other was pulling the doors open. “My Lord, Severus has arrived,” he announced then stepped in without looking back.  
  
The room was bathed in the summer night skylight the high arched windows let in, the velvet curtains pushed on the side. It painted the atmosphere with shades of blue. In the absence of any other source of light, it felt like time had stilled, the impression reinforced by the silence that greeted his entrance.  
  
Severus’ eyes were instantly attracted to the Dark Lord, seating in an armchair between two couches, his posture as regal and arrogant as a king overseeing his subjects. Not too far from the truth, the potioneer reckoned. In the dim light, his thin pale skin had gained a translucent shine, letting the network of purple blood vessels visible on his bald head.  
  
He didn’t allow himself to look away as he walked to the centre of the room, the deafening echoes of his steps his sole companions. Slit red eyes followed his every move, his facial expression unreadable as Severus stopped in front of the long coffee table separating them.  
  
One thing hadn’t changed since the last time they had seen each other. His appearance might be repulsive, his presence however was still intoxicating, reeking of the power that had attracted wizards and witches to him like insects flew straight into a bright light. The characteristic scent of the Dark Arts permeated the air, washing over Severus like icy waves, making his skin tingle and hairs rise. He wondered if the other occupants of the room could feel the weight of it as he did, heavy boulders pressing on his shoulders, urging him to fall on his knees and worship the very ground the Dark Lord was walking on.  
  
He did drop to his knees, head bent, forehead almost on the ground, waiting for the other to make the first move.  
  
The silence stretched out uncomfortably but Severus didn’t dare look at the Dark Lord himself, especially when he could feel the heavy stare on him. He shifted his head imperceptibly to watch where Nott was, gaze hidden by the curtain of his hair.  
  
The old wizard had taken place in the sofa on the Dark Lord’s right, right next to Crouch, whom Severus wasn’t surprised to see there, although he had no idea of how the fugitive had managed to free himself and vanish from Hogwarts. He must had have some help from inside the castle.  
  
“Very nice of you to finally join us, Severus.” The Dark Lord’s voice was soft but strong, unwavering and enticing. Also dripping with a sarcasm that made Severus suppress a cold shiver. “Rise and speak, Severus, I have no time, nor I am in mood for more grovelling tonight.”  
  
Nott flashed him a grin while Crouch crossed his arms over his chest, watching him intently. Severus redirected his attention to the Dark Lord, watching directly into his eyes, Occlumency shields cast over all his mind but carefully selected memories and surface thoughts for the man to peruse at.  
  
“My apologies for my late arrival, my Lord. Duties at the castle required my attendance before I could join you.”  
  
“Being Dumbledore’s underdog is your duty?” There was scorn in Crouch voice, unsurprisingly. If anything, he was made clear early that he looked down upon any Death Eater who had managed to escape the Azkaban sentence. Except maybe Nott as he remembered clearly how close the two had been.  
  
“Securing my position at Dumbledore’s side. The old fool has come to trust me all these years.” That wasn’t a lie. Severus knew the Dark Lord knew since could read it in the memories he was letting simmer at the unprotected parts of his mind.  
  
“He intends for you to spy on me,” the wizard whispered, long bony fingers tapping one of his cheeks. “Sending you to retake your place as a Death Eater and smuggle the informations to him. That is, if I take you back, Severus. Why should I? What shouldn’t I just torture you to death?”  
  
“Because I can be useful in many ways to you, my Lord. Whether my position with Dumbledore or at the heart of his domain, amongst his dear children and.” He sneered. “His precious Potter.” At the very least, he didn’t have to fake his intense dislike of the boy. “Also my skills as a potioneer, which you already have made use of in the past, my Lord. My allegiances haven’t changed in the years that have passed since you left us and I’m still as eager to serve as I was before.”

* * *

**June 21, 1992  
  
**

As it happened, Calypso’s aunt was a tall woman with small hazel green eyes, the same shade as Calypso he couldn’t help noticing, and white hair tied in a low ponytail on the side of her neck, contrasting with her olive skin.  
  
She was wearing tight black jeans and a large flow dark long-sleeved shirt, buttoned haphazardly that would made her look like a Muggle if there weren’t moving silver swirly form on the outfit.  
  
She was probably quite attractive whenever her face wasn’t marred by a particularly sour expression that hadn’t left her face when she had opened the door of her flat and only was becoming worse by the minute. Eventually, she let herself fall into an armchair, puffing out a big fluffy purple smoke.  
  
“Correct me I’m wrong,” she began, speaking for the first time since they had begun retelling the events from last night. She turned to Calypso. “Your father managed to kill your dad in an alchemical experiment gone haywire.” She drew a deep inhalation on her pipe. “Your father is injured, nothing life-threatening but probably blind for the rest of his life and also, disfigured. Not that he hasn’t earned himself that, mind you.” Calypso winced hard but refused to look away as smoke poured out of her mouth along with the harsh words. “And you appeared straight from the future, sent back by a _baby_ that hadn’t even had a name until today.” She snorted. “Then, Nick, that old codger sent the both of you straight to me.”  
  
“That’s pretty much it,” Harry replied with a wry smile.   
  
From his interaction with Flamel, the Auror had realised how out of his depth he actually was here. Although he was in a time he was familiar with, so far, Avalon had felt like a completely different world than the one he had been used to, with rules and intricacies he knew nothing of for the moment.   
  
He figured that showing his hand straight from the beginning would help things going along smoother so he added, “Don’t ask me why he did that. I don’t know. I’ve just done what he asked, I’m new here and have never been in Avalon before, I don’t know anything.”  
  
She tapped the tip of her long pipe against her cheek, expression slipping into a more neutral one. “Well then, let’s begin where we should have started. I’m Callirhoé Marchombre.”  
  
She bowed her head slightly and Harry extended a hand as he introduced himself, “Harry Potter.”   
  
“Welcome to Avalon, Harry Potter. Now then,” she said, completely ignoring his hand so he let it back on his lap. Rude. “Unto why Nick sent you to me. Let’s get straight to the point.” He didn’t appreciate the glint her eyes. “ _Are you by any chance a Parselmouth?_ ”  
  
“Why do you ask that?”  
  
Both Calypso and Callirhoé laughed at him until he realised that he had given himself away. He nibbled on his lips. Destroying the horcrux part of him had, like he had thought it would, not erased his ability to understand or speak to snakes. He had discovered that much later in his life as he had generally avoided snakes. He however hadn’t gotten any better in distinguishing Parseltongue from English when he wasn’t paying attention.  
  
“Don’t look so surprised. There isn’t many reasons why Nick would send you to a Marchombre to begin with and you’d have to be stupid not to guess them.” Harry rose an eyebrow at her, not amused at all.  
  
“ _Or a newcomer_ ,” Calypso intervened with a small smile.  
  
“Thank you for your support, Calypso.”  
  
“As Calypso didn’t leave this part aside when he explained the situation, you’re very well aware that Nick is the Commander and Isi one of the Knights, the one you’re supposed to replace. Young Calypso here is a Squire and his father is a Knight too. As it happens, so I am.”  
  
Harry nodded, he had already came to the same conclusion about Althea, if only because it seemed logical when both the alchemist’s master and his husband were part of the Round Table too.  
  
“I don’t know what Nick told you, but I’m going to do as if he hasn’t told you enough, but I must insist on the fact that it’s essential to keep everything related to Knights secret. You _can’t_ inform or discuss any of it with people who aren’t already in the secret. Which leads us to why you’re standing in front of me right now.”  
  
Callirhoé released another puff of smoke, crooking the fingers of her free hand. A crystal elephant-shaped carafe flapped its ears, floating from a dark wooden commode behind her armchair, hovering over the table until she summoned two shot glasses, which it put the amber liquid it contained in.  
  
“ _Calypso, if you want something to drink, you know the way_ ,” she told the child before turning to Harry when he got up and left the living room, taking a sip of her own glass. “It’s called chouchenn. Try it, it’s not too strong. The catch with being a Knight and all the secrecy surrounding it is that you still have what we call a birth identity. You know, just like Muggles and their superheroes, if you’re familiar with that.”  
  
“I am.” He asked himself why he was surprised she knew of superheroes, especially when her clothes were clearly inspired by Muggle fashion. It wasn’t much of a stretch to guess she knew more of the Muggle world than your run-of-the-mill witch.  
  
“Your name is sort of familiar, even though I can’t remember where I’ve hea—”  
  
“ _He’s the one who defeated the British dark wizard, Voldemort, when he was a baby 10 years ago_ ,” Calypso cut her from the kitchen’s doorstep, holding a kettle. “ _The one who survived the Killing Curse?_ ” he added when his aunt seemed as clueless as before.  
  
Only then things seemed to click for her. “Oh! Now that you mention it I remember reading it in the papers then. The ‘surviving the Killing Curse’ part was sensational enough to make the cover of Le Bouffon de Rire and other major newspapers.”   
  
“Yeah.” Harry cringed at that, even though he was thankful that, if Callirhoé wasn’t an outliner, people here didn’t seem to care much about his ‘accomplishments’ as a baby. “My younger self is still around and we don’t want to take any risk of people linking the two of us. I need to a new birth identity, one that I’ll stick with for a long time.” Maybe even the rest of his life and that was a depressive thought he shove in the back of his mind.  “Apparently, you can help me get one?”  
  
“Nick wouldn’t have sent you to me if I couldn’t. I don’t know why you came back to the past, and no, I don’t want to know. It’s not an information you want spread out so your new identity shouldn’t be one people will want to question.”  
  
He nodded. The less questions, the less lies he would have to tell. He wasn’t too bad a liar, but on the long run there was the very possibility that he would forgot what lies he had told people and that everything would come to bite him in the arse later.  
  
“Avalonian then?”   
  
“Yes, even though you couldn’t pass as a native Avalonian. You’d be busted before you’d even open your mouth.”  
  
“That bad?”  
  
Calypso was chuckling while he came back into the room with a gold mug in his uninjured hand. “ _For a start. We usually don’t shake hands here_ ,” he informed Harry and he felt a bit stupid not to have thought that the younger’s aunt was just rude to be rude instead of a cultural difference. “ _In casual settings, we bow our head. In more formal, we put the wand hand over the heart and bow_ ,” he added as he sat next to the wizard.  
  
“And that’s just the surface. What I can do though, is give you an easy access to Avalonian citizenship and a brand-new identity whose people will mostly avoid questioning too much. Which is where you being a Parselmouth is important.”  
  
“My family, the Marchombres, is one of the oldest families of Avalon. We are well respected, even feared so people would be cautious of questioning you if you were a part of us. And, amongst all other things, we are well-known for integrating Parselmouths into our fold in order to keep the ability running, even if you’re a man.”  
  
“Sorry what? How is my gender relevant?”  
  
Callirhoé took another sip. “We’re a matrilineal family. The kind where men in the family take their spouse family name and men who marry into the family take the Marchombre name. Usually, the fastest way into the family would be marriage.” She scowled. “Which I’m definitely _not_ doing. I mean, you don’t look half bad in a rugged way, Harry, no offence, but I’m definitely not getting married. _Ever_.”   
  
She grimaced harder at that and Harry’s expression was probably the same. There was no way he was getting married. He might not see Ginny, _his_ Ginny ever again, but he wasn’t about to replace her just like that. Merlin’s balls, he hadn’t even been in the past for a day.  
  
“I can relate.” Calypso snorted and Harry was probably missing some kind of joke but he didn’t linger on it. “Not in my plans either,” he told her, touching the cool band around his ring finger. “So if I’m not marrying you, it just leaves adoption right?”  
  
“You look far too old for me to adopt you as a son, but you could be one of my siblings. I was in Burkina Faso for a whole month for work and only came back four days ago. That’s where we met and we went along very fine from the start. When I learnt you were an homeless Parselmouth,” she drawled, looking far too amused with her story. “I decided to take you back home with me and adopt you as a new brother. It’d cover for your inability to speak French or Breton and excuse the cultural many faux pas you are going to make.”  
  
“Won’t they question the fact we’ve only known each other for ‘a month’ and you’re already adopting me?” He airquoted it. “Seems a bit fast.”  
  
“Trust me, people will hear ‘homeless Parselmouth’ and ‘Marchombre’ and that’s pretty much it. Also, it’s not the first time I’m taking in a stray. Although it’s the first time the stray is human.”

* * *

  **June 25, 1995  
  
**_Pink and red splattered everywhere as it dug until it could see the creamish colour of the spine. It stopped, looking up onto an face painted in white by fear and pain, only to let out a crazed laugh. Amu—_ Six opened her eyes. By reflexes born from habit, she managed to lift herself and turned her head on side as she vomited.   
  
As she wiped her mouth with the sleeve of a ruined black shirt she didn’t remember putting on, she saw how the cracks in her skin had smoothened. It had turned into a less unnatural white, less ghostly and the veins not as prominent as they had been. She was, felt, more substantial, not about to vanish from the face of the Earth at a moment’s notice.  
  
Then, reality slapped her hard in the face. Another spasm hit her and Six puked again. She was left panting heavily, her sight troubled by the tears gathering in her eyes. She put a hand on her chest, trying to calm herself, when she heard hurried step foots coming in her direction.  
  
“Six? Are you okay?”  
  
“When I am ever?” Her voice was raspy, as if she had spent hours screaming. More like laughing maniacally, she corrected herself, watching a pair of heavy boots coming up. “I still don’t understand why you keep asking the question.” At least, it sounded as humorous as she had tried to.  
  
The boots stopped right in front of her. She didn’t try to lift her head to see the owner because, for one she already knew Géricault’s old wrinkly face who be looking down at her full of concern. Also, her head felt like it was full of cotton and rocks, far too heavy to move from where it was now that she didn’t feel like vomiting again. He didn’t answer and she didn’t need him to. They had been through similar events six times already, seven now. It sadly was a routine by that point.  
  
“Tell me who was the unlucky person.”   
  
At least, she told herself when Géricault shifted around, her old mentor and friend had stopped trying to protect her from something she couldn’t escape or wouldn’t escape. She might not have a choice or a way to stop anything, but she refused to put her hand in front of her eyes and not look. She wanted to know everything. The wizard hadn’t understood her desire to face the truth, he probably still didn’t, so he had refused to tell her what was going on at first. By the when the fifth victim came, he had relented, if only because it was easy for Six to question any of the other or look at the newspapers.  
  
He put a gloved hand under her chin and lifted her head until she was at eye level with him. He was crouching, holding a copy of  Le Bouffon de Rire in his other hand. He moved it in front of him so she could see the cover. In the picture, the corpse of the poor man was displayed in the same manner as the other time she didn’t spend more than necessary on it. François Hapart, she read with relief. Not someone she had known. Thanks Merlin for small mercies.  
  
She winced then, ashamed of her own feelings.

 

*******

 

Voldemort watched the crimson of his eyes slowly change into a crystal blue before the slitted pupils widened into a round shape that would be far less conspicuous. Only then he lifted his wand from his temple, the wondrous feeling of being able to _hold_ one not gone yet, although he still felt queasy and out of touch with himself, even after the Wit-Sharpening Potion one of Oscar’s domestics had delivered after he had asked for some.  
  
He bent forward to better examine his appearance. As he had told his servant, he had chosen his old face as a template to create his new one, subtly modifying his features not to look like a complete carbon copy of himself and make himself seem like he was in his late twenties rather than middle-aged. If the result was rather satisfying, the Dark Lord was unsettled by the time it had taken him to get there, far longer than it would have once been.  
  
Potter and Dumbledore would have to wait until he found a way to strengthen his vessel. At least, he told himself as he looked away from his reflection to button the shirt Oscar had lent him with unsteady hands, he had paths and clues to follow to remedy to his most urgent problem.  
  
On his way out, Oscar’s old butler indicated him to the formal dining room on the ground floor and Voldemort walked there, deep in thoughts. The improvised meeting with the Knights had been too short for him to forge himself an accurate idea of what sort of men he was dealing with. Agravain and Yvain had both stayed back and let their Commander do most of the talking. While the first had seemed quite neutral to him neither relaxed nor nervous, he had noticed the wariness and suspicion in the second, looking high-strung and ready to curse him at a moment’s notice. Galaad, on the other hand, had been nothing but smiles and sweetness. Voldemort, however, wasn’t an idiot and he knew all about masks. If only because had the Commander been as good as his face and soft attitude suggested, he wouldn’t had contacted the Dark Lord and proposed to establish a “relationship of mutual benefices” between him and the Knights.  
  
He had agreed as the proposition was, for now, at his advantage, if only because one part of the agreement was an assurance that Avalon wouldn’t side against him for as long as the agreement stood as well as an access to the country where as long as he stuck to the rules over there, nobody would bother him. That would be useful as he intended to begin his researches to sort out what was wrong with his new body over there. After all, Avalon, like Egypt and China, was known for the talent of its alchemists, which had amongst all others included Nicolas Flamel, he couldn’t help but scowl at the loss of the Philosopher’s Stone, and Artephius, the father of modern alchemy.  
  
The other advantages of Avalon included their lack of prejudices against the Dark Arts and not the least, Oscar’s ties to the country. His granddaughter, Sophia Rookwood, he remembered like he remembered Narcissa Malfoy, both proud and driven women from respectable families who weren’t Death Eaters but certainly as eager to serve as their grandfather for one, and husband for the other. Voldemort couldn’t imagine Rookwood’s granddaughter, the epitome of a pure-blood witch, having married into nothing but a prominent Avalonian family. If Oscar’s naive faith in his tie to his godson was nearly as strong as he believed it was, befriending the man could only be beneficial for the Dark Lord. If only for the material resources and expensive network of contacts old families tended to gather. _Especially_ , if it gave him access to the Knights of the Round Table.  
  
He eventually entered the dining room by the central archway. Oscar and his other guests were on the far right end of the long table, the first facing him holding a Daily Prophet in one hand and a white and golden china cup in the other, he noticed him straight away and nodded politely at him.  
  
Voldemort smirked at seeing Severus sitting on the older’s right, stiff as a broom and his expression a sneer. The dislike the potioneer had harboured for the vain man hadn’t seemed to lighten in all these years and it amused the Dark Lord greatly.  
  
He had been merciful on Severus the past night. He had brought useful informations with him, worth enough for him to stay his wand for the moment. And, as the younger man had argued, he was a useful person to have around with a knowledge and talent that were to be reckoned with. Both of which Voldemort had used extensively in the past and intended to fully use again and show Dumbledore he should have disposed of Severus instead of trying to turn him against his original owner.   
  
Oscar cleared his throat when Voldemort sat at the head of the table, domestics already there to put the dishes in front of him.   
  
On his left, Barty and someone who undoubtedly was the godson unless Oscar was housing more people and had forgotten to warn him, which was very unlikely of his host. The way they lifted their head in synchronisation from the unfolded newspaper they’d been looking at. He immediately noted the proximity, with shoulders touching and comfortable in each other’s space in a way that betrayed closeness.   
  
Last night, amongst all thing they had discussed, the topic of how to with Barty staying at Nightshore Hall and Millepertuis being there at the same time. Oscar and Barty had pleaded for letting the Avalonian in the confidence as, according to them, the man would never think of compromising his position. Voldemort hadn’t disagreed because it would be simpler for everyone if Barty didn’t have to hide in Oscar’s home but both Death Eaters knew that if their idiotic blind trust in things such as friendship and family was betrayed, it would be all on them and they should considered themselves lucky if they survived however the Dark Lord would deem fit to punish them. Millepertuis himself would not, evidently.  
  
The godson was around Barty’s age, with shoulder-length copper hair and a stubble as bright above his lips and over cheeks. There was an up-quirk in his lips that screamed of Oscar, just like the way he gracefully bowed and nodded at the same time.  
  
“You must be the new stray Oscar picked up. Raf Millepertuis, nice to meet you,” he said, extending a hand.   
  
When unflinching amber eyes met his and Voldemort didn’t stop himself from using Legilimency. Since he wasn’t aware yet of what Millepertuis could do, he dwelled only at the surface of his mind in a light touch the other wouldn’t notice. From he cursory scan, he only gathered a great curiosity and no obvious intention to sell Barty out so he decided to leave it at that for now.  
  
“Marvin Mortimer,” he answered, shaking the hand firmly.  
  
“It’s your first time at Nightshore Hall, right?” Millepertuis asked as Voldemort served himself hash browns and black pudding, finding himself more than eager to properly taste food for the first time in far too long.  
  
“It is actually my first time in Britain. Although my father was British, he left the country not long after he graduated Hogwarts, met my mother abroad and never came back.”  
  
“Even when you were born he never took you here?”  
  
“He never cared to tell me why he left and I never dared ask why.” He made a pained expression. “No that this matters anymore as he died recently and sorting through his belongings, I found pictures and letters from his old British friends. Since there was nobody left to stop me indulging in my curiosity, I decided to write to Oscar and much to my surprise, he was kind enough to offer me his hospitality.”  
  
“Well, Oscar.” Millepertuis’ gaze went the concerned man, who smiled. “Always had the habit to take strays in.” He glanced at Barty but it was obvious the last was the only one he was talking about. “You’re quite lucky as there’s no better man to learn more about Britain. If you like the high society that is.” He grinned. “And hearing Oscar gloat about his face.”  
  
“I have a very nice face worth gloating, that’s why,” Oscar countered, batting his eyelashes at Millepertuis who snorted.   
  
Next to the blond, Severus looked like he wanted very much out of there and knowing the man, he probably did. Still, Voldemort decided he wanted to have some fun at his expense.  
  
“And how did you end up here? Did Oscar also took you in?” Barty laughed at that while Oscar himself snorted.   
  
“As it happens, I’m in need of Abalna leaves and I was about to contact Millepertuis when I learnt he was staying at Nott’s. Since I know he’d asked for meeting me face to face to conduct business anyway, I figured it’d be simpler for the both of us to meet here,” Severus said drily, less than amused.   
  
Voldemort didn’t think they’d be acquaintanced but Millepertuis didn’t protested nor looked surprised. Voldemort had to applaud the speed he had came up with that though.  
  
“Wait, you know each other? How come?”  
  
“I’ve worked for Snape before,” Millepertuis told Barty. The blond frowned so his friend elaborated, “I’m a gatherer. Based in Avalon but it’s not unusual for me to work with British wizards since I spend a lot of time in Britain. Usually to gather Avalonian ingredients for them since, you know, I live there.”  
  
“Do you really?” Oscar grinned. “From my point of view, it’s more like you live here than at your own flat.”  
  
“Only because I’m keeping you company while Theo is at Hogwarts. I know how lonely it gets for you here with only your terribly boring old father,” he drawled. “To get back to the Albana leaves, Snape. I’ve got to go back to Avalon to take care of some business, I’ll use the occasion to snatch you Albana leaves in the meantime.”  
  
“Speaking of which, Raf,” Oscar said, brushing strands of hair away from his face. “You know that Barty doesn’t have a wand anymore and can’t exactly show up in Diagon Alley to get another one. Would you mind taking him to Avalon?”  
  
“Why do you even ask? I’m hurt you think I would mind.” Millepertuis said with fake offence. “If you’re ready, we can even leave after breakfast,” he added to Barty. “Actually, I wouldn’t showing you around too, Mortimer, if you want. Merlin knows Britain can be drearily dull compared to Avalon.”  
  
Voldemort smiled. Here was the opportunity he had been waiting for.


End file.
